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MADE OR MARRED.

JESSIE FOTHERGILL,

r VIOLIN," 'PROBATION,' ETC.

LONDON :
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,

j^nbUsluia in ffitbu^irs *" W^ ^ajtats ttu djiuen.

1 88 1.

lAli Rights Samtd.l

2$-l .

/ •

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I, LAWRENCE STREET

II. *WHAT IS SUCCESS?' -

III. SPECIAL SERVICE

IV. MABELLE IN THE RAIN
V. ANGELA

VI. ANGELA'S REASONS, FOR AND AGAINST
VII. IN THE WOODS

VIII. * TRUST HER NOT; SHE*S FOOLING T
IX. GRACE ON THE SITUATION

X. FAREWELL
XI. GOING AND RETURNING
XII. MABELLE's TRANSLATION
Xin. COMING
XIV. CONFESSION -
XV. THE END OF A DREAM
XVI. REACTION
XVII. AT MR. grey's
XVIII. PHILIP OFFERS TO GO
XIX. FAREWELL
XX. AT RED LEES -
XXI. CONSTERNATION
XXII. REPARATION REQUIRED

XXIII. LAST DAYS

XXIV. AN ACCOUNT CLOSED

hee'

IN SEARCH OF

BLUE

ROSES

rAGE

I
II

23

33
43
56
63
72

1^

83

94

99
loS

108

1 10

118

122

129

132

149

157

173
182

MADE OR MARRED,

CHAPTER I.

LAWRENCE STREET.

In the north-west of England there is a certain great
city, which, to serve my purpose, I may call Irkford.
Though far from being a second London, it has a'cosmo-
politan character, which somewhat sets it apart from other
provincial towns and cities. It is pre-eminently a great
manufacturing centre, but its numerous other branches
of commerce have drawn to it merchants of almost every
kind, and of all nations ; and * Jews, Turks, Infidels, and
Hereticks,' taking the words in their broadest sense, may
be daily encountered, either in the streets of the city
itself, or in any of its large and numerous suburbs.
Greeks also, French, and great abundance of Germans —
it would be difficult to find the nationality which had
not contributed at least a few specimens to the popu-
lation of this great, dingy city. Naturally, in so large a
centre of wealth and commerce, all sorts and conditions

t

2 MADE OR MARRED.

of men flourish, or the reverse, according to their circum-
stances or capacities ; from the merchant-prince, with his
house like a palace, down through every grade of smaller
capitalist, assistant, clerk, employ t^ till we come to factory
hands, artisans, * rogues and vagabonds,' miscellaneous
trades and professions, good, bad, and indifferent — in
the great city there is place for some of all, and they are
all to be found there ; high and low jogging elbows pretty
often in the crowded streets ; but — ^and this is one of the
great characteristics of the Irkford people — one and all,
from the merchant-prince at the top of the ladder to the
beggar at the bottom, so busy that it seems as if a hun-
dred years would scarce suffice in which for them to
accomplish their purposes : too busy to notice when they
knock up against one another in the street ; too busy, it
almost seems, to pause and speak to a friend whom they
may meet ; for if you will take the trouble, and be so
frivolously careless of your time as to watch the meeting
of two acquaintances in Irkford, you will generally find
that they dash against each other; recognise each other
with a kind of shock ; begin to talk very rapidly, both at
once, each gradually edging away from the other, until at
last the slightly-clasped fingers slowly separate \ one man's
finger-tip touches the finger-tip of the other man, and with
a short nod, they may be heard severally murmuring
* Morning !' in an absent manner, after which anyone can
pee them tearing up and down the thronged-out streets,
with almost impossible haste, as if grudging that meagre
parley of a minute and a half, just concluded. Such
things as these take place during the hours of toil : the
business hours. After the factory-hands have ceased
\Q work, when the warehouses and offices are closed,

LAWRENCE STREET. 3

and the city streets are somewhat less crowded, then,
it would seem, Irkford, young and old, rich and poor,
has some leisure to devote to amusement, relaxation, rest,
of one kind or another.

It is a town surrounded on all sides by suburbs. There
are certain regions built over with handsome houses, stand-
ing back from the road, where none but the rich or very
well-to-do live. There is the second-class kind of suburb,
the inhabitants of which maybe comfortably off, but whom
no one would accuse of having a superfluity of wealth.
There are yet others, to walk or drive through which gives
one a sense of melancholy — so endless are their long
uniform streets, so exactly alike the interminable rows of
small houses; so portentously similar the organ-grinder
and the man with the street-piano ; the blind beggar with
the dog ; the * very poor but scrupulously honest ' men-
dicants who perambulate them, singing some of their
mournful hymns, or yet more lugubrious comic songs.
There are so many of these streets ; they are so long, so
monotonous, so dingily hot in summer ; so hopelessly
bleak and grey in winter ] every little house in every long
row is so inevitably inhabited, and brimming over with
children ; the greengrocer's cart passes through them with
such mechanical regularity, one wonders how the inhabit-
ants can bear it.

It is into a street of the second order that I would lead
you — a street in whose homes one would think there
ought to be happiness, since in it live, to quote from the
geographical primer of youth, * no very rich, and no ex-
fremely poor ;' but chiefly those who are neither one nor
the other — it is strictly a middle-class street Lawrence
Street was its name ; it was rather long, and possessed

I — 2

4 MADE OR MARRED.

the attraction of a bend about midway in its length.
The houses below the bend were smaller and meaner
than those above it. This upper end of Lawrence Street
enjoyed several advantages over the lower one, including
a row of horse-chestnuts on either side the road, which,
at the time I speak of, were, though stunted in size, and
occasionally misshapen, just beginning to burst into an
exquisite network of dazzling, yellow-green young buds
and leaves. It was the beginning of May ; these buds
and leaves were as yet too young to have been smirched
by the dust which whirled up from the passing carts and
omnibuses. Pollution would arrive soon enough j at pre-
sent the green was as fresh and vernal as if, instead of
being planted down a busy street, they had been deep in
woody dells, miles away from a house.

Behind the trees on either side the street was, of course,
a row of houses. They were moderately-sized, modest-
looking houses, with stuccoed fronts which had long
been of a dirty-grey in colour. They looked and were
thinly built. The blinds appeared nearly all afflicted with
some infirmity, generally constitutional, and, as a rule,
taking the form of a rooted tendency to *draw up
crooked,' and hang with a rakish, slanting appearance at
the top of the window.

The houses had bow-wandows, at least the house with
which we are concerned had bow-windows. In front ot
it was a remarkably small strip of garden, with a little red-
tiled walk leading up to the front door. The doors of the
houses were placed in twos, side by side — an advantage,
no doubt, to the postman and the tradesman, who rang
both bells at once, and transacted their business with two
establishments simultaneously, but, as some of the heads

LAWRENCE STREET.

5

of those establishments thought, degrading to the persons
who had to live in them. I merely wish to insist on the
fact that living in Lawrence Street was almost like liVing
in one great house ; everything which was done in onQ
house being distinctly audible to the persons who lived
in the next. There was no hiding one's light here, either
literally or metaphorically, yet it was a very popular place
of residence, and the houses in it were rarely empty, and
snapped up again if they were vacated, almost before
there was time for the new whitewash to dry.

The evening was warm and pleasant. It was Friday
in the week that follows Whitweek. Irkford had just
had her great annual holiday, and was settling down to
work again with what spirit she might. The wind, oddly
enough, for it was May, was blowing from the south-west
instead of from the north-east. One of the bow-windows
on the ground-floor of one of the stucco-fronted houses
was open, and in the embrasure sat two young men, with
a little table between them, on which stood coffee-cups
and a cigar-box. They sat in easy-chairs, one in either
corner of the window, and there had been a long silence
between them. In fact, there was a lull altogether ; as
it happened, no children were screaming in the immedi-
ate vicinity of the gate : it was nearly a quarter of an
hour since the last omnibus had passed, and during that
time no vehicle had gone by.

But suddenly the silence was broken. There arose a
clamour which grew into a roar. All at once Pande-
monium seemed to have been let loose. Two omnibuses
came thundering past ; one up and one down the street ;
as soon as the din they occasioned had somewhat sub-
sided, the strains became distinctly audible of a street-

6 MADE OR MARRED.

piano, frantically performing an air with variations from
that select repertory of popular melodies, La Filie de
Madame Angot. Several carts and a large van hurried
up and down the street. The musical instrument which
had so suddenly appeared upon the scene was being
advanced slowly and steadily towards the window at
which the two young men were sitting. As yet, the
swarthy-looking soi-disant Italian who turned the handle
of the instrument had not perceived the two highly-
promising victims. Suddenly his eye fell upon them.
With a joyful bound, which caused an abrupt pause in
the wild and terribly brilliant crescendo passage, which
was then issuing from his machine, he swooped down
upon the open window as an eagle swoops upon his prey,
certain that if the young men liked his music, they would
give him money to reward him for its beauty, and that if
they did not like it, they would equally give him money
as a bribe to depart and cease to lacerate their ears.

* Jove ! That fellow has found us out, and is making
straight for us,* observed the elder of the two young men,
who had a dark, handsome, resolute face, and long, stal-
wart limbs, stretched at full length before him.

' What a bore !' murmured his companion, not raising
his head to look. * Sometimes, Massey, I wonder that
you stay here ; there is as great a row now and then as in
the middle of the town on a market-day.'

* I stay because it's convenient for the town and the
omnibuses ; and then my widow makes me so comfort-
able, and I am lazy, and don't want the bother of moving,
or of getting up any earlier, or else I wouldn't stay ; in
other words, if it didn't suit me in every respect, I'd go,'
replied he, fixing his eyes on the grinning owner of the

LAWRENCE STREET. 7

piano, who, beginning to turn the handle again, let ofT the
remainder of the trill and the end of the variation in one
wild burst, upon the enraptured ears of the listeners.

*Cab coming. Organ-man doesn't see it — going to
be run over,' continued Philip Massey, who lodged at
this particular house in Lawrence Street, and whose
friend had been dining with him.

' Let him,' said Hermann Berghaus, indifferently. * I
don't care — I'd be rather glad if he were.'

But the organ-grinder had just discovered his danger.
He managed to escape as it were from out the very jaws
of the cab-horse, swearing and beating a rapid retreat,
and the vehicle pulled up at the little iron gate of the
next house.

'Lodgers,' said Philip Massey, puffing slowly at his
cigar, and turning his head just sufficiently to enable
him to observe the proceedings of the cabman and his
passengers. * Lodgers, lodgers everywhere, and not ^

* Lodgers ! ' repeated Hermann, dreamily ; * more
lodgers ! " Tell me not in mournful numbers " '

' Girls,' put in Massey, in the same lazy, undisturbed
voice.

' Girls !' echoed his friend with a degree more of ani-
mation. 'That's a lot better than if they had been
fellows. Do they look nice girls ?'

'School-girl, that one,' pursued Philip, who had re-
moved his cigar from his lips, and was watching with
more interest in his dark eyes. * Nice-looking lass, very.
Fair hair — walks well — straight as a willow. Ah !'

With that exclamation, he even raised himself, and
looked earnestly forth. Unable any longer to endure
being in what he called a false position — on the wrong

8 MADE OR MARRED.

side, that is, for seeing what was going on — Hermann
Berghaus jumped up and leaned over the back of his
friend's chair; his fair, good-natured Teuton face and
yellow hair appearing in marked contrast above the
darker traits of Philip Massey.

Thus placed, they surveyed the new next-door lodgers,
or rather, that one of them whose appearance had called
forth that * Ah T from Philip's usually laconical lips.

She had just got out of the cab, and was standing,
purse in hand, waiting while the cabman and a maid-
servant carried in the luggage. Her back was turned
towards the two young men, but as she gradually turned,
watching the progress of the luggage, they saw her profile,
and it was both beautiful and striking — slight, pale, and
dark, with fine, yet intensely clear outlines, outlines which
a caviller might have been disposed to call too clear, too
fine — ^verging on sharpness. But the expression of the
delicate lips was very sweet. A gauzy veil was thrown
back over her bonnet, so that her face seemed set in a
soft, black framework, wondrously becoming to her high-
bred, delicate beauty. Her figure was slight, tall and
supple ; her dress exceedingly plain and in good taste ;
•her gown fell in long, rather clinging folds about her.
There was natural dignity and distinction in every line of
her figure and attitude ; and the nameless something as
well which no natural grace can give, but only the habit
of life with refined persons — the something which dis-
covers the well-bred lady.

She stood quite still until the cabman returned, and
then she asked him what his fare was.

Philip's sitting-room window was open, and he and his
friend heard distinctly all that passed. She spoke in a

LAWRENCE STREET. 9

soft, pure voice, with an accent that was like music in its
perfect refinement, neither northern nor southern, but
highly polished and cultivated. That accent struck with
almost a thrill upon one pair of ears, which were sensitive to
melodious sounds, and accustomed to the broad provin-
cialisms of Irkford men.

* Three-and-six, miss, if you please,' said her Jehu, not
meeting her eye.

* Three-and-sixpence !' she repeated, pausing ere she
sought in her purse the sum, and speaking with surprise.
* Three-and-sixpence for that short distance? I think
you must be mistaken.'

*From the North-Western station, miss; two fares,
three boxes, and parcels ! I ain't mistaken, I think — not
much.'

*From the North-Western! The rascally thief!'
murmured Hermann Berghaus below his breath, as he
continued to watch with unabated interest.

* Of course I cannot contradict you,' she replied, as
she looked for the sum required, * but it really seems to
me '

*Ask those 'ere gen'lemen, miss. They'll tell you,'
said the cabman affably, as he pocketed the fare, and
pointed towards the window in which they were sitting.

Naturally, she turned with a swift surprised move-
ment, before either Philip or Hermann had time to draw
back. She saw their intent visages, and they saw a
pale, delicate face, still more beautiful when fully viewed
than in profile. A pair of long, liquid, deep-blue eyes ;
wa\7 dark hair, parted in heavy masses from a low white
forehead, a forehead as low and dangerously beautiful as
that of the Towneley Clytie ; a dubious expression, half

lo MADE OR MARRED.

surprise, half recoil upon the face ; an expression which
soon resolved itself into one of haughty astonishment, as
she realised that the two faces she saw were intently
gazing at her, must have been gazing at her for a per-
ceptible length of time.

* You have got your fare,' she said in a cool, unruffled
voice. * Good-evening.'

* Evenin', miss,' said he, with something like a grin at
the success of his ruse; while she, not vouchsafing
another glance towards the spectators, swept up the little
red-tiled walk, and was lost to view.

Philip Massey had sprung up, his dark face deeply
flushed, his eyebrows meeting in a frown.

' What an ass you are, Berghaus, to come poking be-
hind me ! What must she have thought !' he exclaimed,
in a voice deep with annoyance.

^ It was that confounded, meddling fool of a cabman.
I'd like uncommonly well to give him a hiding !' . said
Hermann, recoiling, his face, too, flushed, and looking
intensely foolish.

* I hope she's pleased with her neighbours,' said Philip,
the flush still on his face, as he plunged his hands into
his pockets, and strode about the room — a perform-
ance rendered less impressive than it might have been
from the fact that two strides and a half of his long legs
devoured all the space at his command

*Well, it doesn't much matter,' said Hermann, con-
solingly. *No one knows his next-door neighbour in
streets like this. And if she's musical she'll soon have
her revenge, for you'll hear every blessed note she plays,
and you'll soon wish her — somewhere.'

* You ass !' was all his friend said, planting himself in

LAWRENCE STREET. ii

a chair, in the darkest and remotest comer of the
room.

* Well, come, Massy I Draw it mild,' suggested Her-
mann, with a suspicion of pique in his tones.

* Pretty fools we must both have looked !* Philip con-
tinued to mutter to himself, * and so beastly rude, too.*

* Well, shall we go out ?* said Hermann.

* Out— where ?

*To the cricket-field Or — I believe the girls said they
were going to play croquet to-night. Come to our place,
and let's see what they are doing.'

* Well,' said Philip. * Perhaps we'd better, and I had
a favour to ask of Miss Berghaus, too.'

* Come along, then !' said Hermann, joyfully; and they
left the house, carefully avoiding so much as a glance
towards the windows next door.

CHAPTER n.

*WHAT IS SUCCESS?'

The two young men turned out of Lawrence Street, to
go to the house of Hermann's father. There is a saying,
floating dimly about somewhere, to the effect that * a man
is known, or may be known, by his friends. 'There is an
air of sapience about the saying, but it may be doubted
whether it contains much meaning in reality. The cir-
cumstances which help to force a man in the choice of
his friends and associates ought also to be taken into
consideration. If, for instance, the character of Philip
Massey had been judged from the fact that Hermann

12 MADE OR MARRED.

Berghaus was his greatest friend, or at least his greatest
intimate, the result would have been a very garbled, one-
sided view of him and his individuality.

He was like hundreds, even thousands of young men,
living in the same city — strictly and entirely of the middle
class. He came of no particular family, and had no particu-
lar fortune. His father was a large yeoman farmer, of good
estate, residing near the seaport of Foulhaven, in York-
shire. Philip's own position in life was, so far as one
could judge, a tolerably secure, if not a very brilliant one.
He was employed in an extensive firm of civil engineers
and surveyors in the city of Irkford. If he persevered in
his calling, and displayed energy and intelligence, it was
quite on the cards that he might rise in time to a position
of great comfort, and even affluence. On the cards also,
though more remote, was the possibility that he might
linger in his present position for an indefinite number of
years, rising no higher, if sinking no lower. He was six-
and-twenty years old, and had been with his present
employers, in different capacities, for ten years. During
that time he had lived alone in lodgings, not exactly
friendless and without anyone to look after him, but
certainly without any great superfluity of pastors and
masters. He had relations ; he was possessed of a father
and mother, still living ; he had sisters — two married and
settled in homes of their own — one, the youngest, and
his favourite, still under the parental roof. He had
brothers, too, scattered in different parts of the world —
for not one of the sons cared to follow the calling of his
father — one brother in India, a second in Australia ; him-
self, the youngest of the three, in the great Irkford firm of
civil engineers.

' WHAT IS SUCCESS r 13

The story of his life forms a very short and simple
annal. To Philip, whenever he thought about it, it con-
sisted of a series of advances in business, coincident with
a series of advances to successively better lodgings in
successively better streets and quarters of the town ; until
six months ago he had established himself at 57, Lawrence
Street, in the house of a widow, who, he said, made him
so comfortable, that he never intended to leave her.

It must be owned, with every necessary apology for the
fact, that Philip Massey had up to that time only appeared
as a very commonplace character. During his ten years'
management of his own affairs, he had done nothing in
the very least remarkable. He had not gone to the bad,
nor had he become in any way decidedly good. He had
managed to keep out of debt, save little incidental debts
now and then, which had never seriously embarrassed
him. His amusements had been of the kind common
to most of the young men he knew. They all made a
point of paying frequent visits to the different Irkford
theatres, and passing their valuable criticisms on the
various plays and pantomimes performed there ; they also
patronised different sorts of concerts and entertainments,
being directed in their choice by the bent of their minds
and surroundings. On Saturday afternoons, when they
came home early from business, they were usually in the
habit of playing football in winter, and cricket in sum-
mer. They went out in large bodies to play against rival
clubs ; they adorned their persons for these sports in
striped jerseys of startling hue ; and they adorned their
clubs with names as far-fetched and bizarre as the colours
of the costumes in which their souls delighted. Their legs
they were wont to encase in stockings still more remark-

H MADE OR MARRED.

able than the jerseys; and thus equipped, strong in num-
bers, they might be seen by proud parents and a delighted
public, parading the streets to and from their respective
cricket or football grounds.

It sounds a commonplace, everyday kind of career,
almost vulgar in its commonplaceness ; but it becomes
less uninteresting when one thinks of the possibilities
hidden behind all those young faces — the possibilities
contained in all those young lives — potentialities which
might remain dormant to the very last — or whose full
strength might be called forth, and their full results dis-
played. * Life is not an idle ore,' we are told.

' But iron dug from central gloom,
And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipped in baths of hissing tears,
And battered with the strokes of doom
To shape and use.'

But it may take a less tremendous process than this
to mould a young man's character, and prove whether
good or bad predominates in him, whether the afflictions
or prosperities which attend him in his life's course shall
have made or marred him in the end.

It was at one of the afore-mentioned cricket or football
clubs with the mystic titles, * Scorpions,* * Gnats,' * Free
Wanderers,' or the like, that three or four years ago,
Philip Massey had met Hermann Berghaus. German
by name, and born of German parents, Hermann had
never been in his fatherland. His father was a merchant
of Irkford, one of the wealthier merchants ; his wife was
a charming woman, and their house, always hospitably
open to * Hermann's friends,' was a pleasant one to go to.
The youth himself was the only son of the house, and

* IVHAT IS SUCCESS f 15

was blessed with three sisters who were inclined to spoil
him. Without any very deep or devoted friendship,
Philip and young Berghaus had always been cordial
allies, for Hermann, younger by several years than his
friend, felt the influence which Philip Massey, despite his
commonplace antecedents and career, very generally
exercised over his acquaintance. It would have been
difficult to say in what the attraction consisted, for his
manner was simple and without any particular suavity or
polish ; perhaps the rather grave simplicity had something
to do with the charm, simplicity being rarer now than
it once was. He passed among his friends for a very
good fellow, difficult to stir up, but occasionally saying
dry, humorous things with an undisturbed gravity which
made one involuntarily laugh, and again making sharp
sarcastic speeches in a lazy voice, which might be sup-
posed to leave disagreeable sensations in the bosoms of
those against whom they were directed Perhaps also
part of the charm may have lain in his appearance, for
he was distinctly handsome, with a dark face, and a warm
southern colouring, showing that the blood coursed freely
under the brown skin, and reminding one occasionally,
in a fleeting manner, of some face looking from canvases
of Vandyke or Paolo Veronese. He had a pleasant voice,
with a tinge of Yorkshire in its accent ; pleasant eyes,
dark, and containing sometimes a certain glow which
hinted at a temper more ardent than his was usually sup-
posed to be. He could frown sometimes, darkly enough,
and his smile was a sweet, if not a frequent one.
' He and Hermann Berghaus found themselves presently
in a wide, busy suburban street, known as Carlton Road,
one of the busiest thoroughfares to and from Irkford.

i6 MADE OR MARRED.

They walked for some little distance up this road, until
they had passed the last shops, and had come to a stretch
of thoroughfare shaded on either side by large trees, a
very pleasant portion of the road. The trees grew be-
hind rather high walls, and behind them were some large,
pleasant modem houses, and a few older ones, dating
back to the middle of the last century, when Irkford had
been a little country town, with fewer inhabitants than
were now contained in a single one of its suburbs.

Philip and Hermann turned in at the large wooden
gates belonging to one of these houses, and found them-
selves in a garden, green, fresh and delightful, a garden
whose beauty was surprising, as being so near a great
smoky town. When the high wooden gates were closed,
nothing could be seen of the throng outside, only the
tramp, tramp of many feet heard, and the never-ending
rumble of vehicles.

'Heyday!' remarked Hermann, looking round the
garden, * I don't see any of the girls : they certainly said
they were going to play croquet. Let's go and see where
they are.'

They went into the house, the door of which stood
open, into a large, comfortable square hall, and aside into
the drawing-room, where was assembled a party of both
ladies and gentlemen, who seemed to Philip numerous.

* Hollo, you girls !' cried Hermann ; * Thekla, Emilie 1
I thought you were going to play croquet to-night'

* So many people came, and we thought it so much
pleasanter to talk, that we gave it up, Hermann,' replied
a very clear, decided voice, as a bright-looking, yellow-
haired girl advanced towards them from the midst of a
very talkative group. * Did you bring Mr. Massey here

&

' WHAT IS SUCCESS r 17

under promise that he should have croquet ? she added,
as she shook hands with Philip.

* Well, we came here because we had nowhere else to
go,' he replied with brotherly insouciance.

* Thank you both for such a flattering visit,' said she.

* He perverts the facts, Miss Berghaus. He brought
us here because he had been *

* Now drop that,' said Hermann, goodnaturedly ; * re-
member, it was on your premises that it happened*

* What is this mystery ?' asked Thekla.

* And I have a favour to ask of you,* continued Philip,

* which I hope you will be good-natured enough to grant.
But there is no hurry about it. Any time this evening.'

* I shall be glad to grant it if I can,* she answered,

* and meantime, listen to me. We are going to have a
game. It is called " clumps,** and I want you to join,
will you ? It is so amusing ?*

*As soon as I have spoken to Mrs. Berghaus,* said
Philip, bowing, and going across the room towards a
sofa, on which was enthroned the lady of the house, a
handsome, open-faced matron, richly dressed and knitting
away very rapidly at some bright scarlet wool. A few
moments were occupied in paying his respects to her,
and then Philip returned to where Thekla Berghaus still
stood talking to Hermann.

* I am now at your service, Miss Berghaus : what is
the game ?'

*0h, really ! How am I to explain? Two people go
out of the room, you know, and think of a word'

' So many games seem to me to begin in that way/
said Philip, politely.

* I know they do. It doesn't sound original, but. it is

2

1 8 MADE OR MARRED.

most amusing. We want a word now. Suppose yoii
and I go out now, and think of one. That will be the
quickest way of learning.'

*And the pleasantest,' said Philip politely, as he
followed her out into the halL

* Now for a word !* said Thekla. * Let it be something
very hard to guess.'

^ But may I ask what becomes of this unfortunate
word, after it has been picked out in such an invidious
manner ?*

* They have to guess it, you know. You go to one
" clump " of people, and I go to the other ;* and they
ask you all sorts of questions, and the answers you give
are to be as brief as possible ; and so they have to try to
find it out, don't you see ?*

'With all my heart, so far as the brevity is concerned.
Put what about the word ?*

' A word, or an idea. Let it be something uncom-
mon,* s^id Thekla, eagerly.

* Courtesy, or bashfulness ?* suggested Philip.

* Fie, Mr. Massey ! How malicious ! Something
abstract, I mean.'

* The music of the future, which I so often hear at
your house.*

* Ah, that might do. Just now we had women's suf-
frage.'

* Why not success ?* suggested Philip again.
•Success?' repeated Thekla, and paused * Success!

the very thing. Only wliat is success ? I don't see how
they are ever to guess, or we to define it. Oh, what a
treasure of inventiveness you are !'

' It is abstract, and uncommon ; that is why it struck

' IVHAT IS SUCCESS f 19

me as being suitable,' said Philip mildly, as they went
back into the drawing-room.

*you are to sit there/ said Thekla, pointing out a
chair in the midst of a group of persons, * and I go here i
with which she left him.

Philip sat surrounded by a group of almost entire
strangers, all eagerly bending forward and questioning
him, while he tried to keep in his mind the idea 'success,'
and define it, on the Socratic method, by means of ques-
tion and answer. An idle play, got up to amuse a set of
careless young people. It was characteristic of him that
he overlooked the jest, and went to the root of the
matter.

* Now, old fellow, is it animal, vegetable, or mineral ?
asked Hermann, searchingly.

* None of them.'

* Abstract ?

*In itself, not in its results.'

* A quality?*

* More like an accident — sometimes inseparable, some-
times not' *

* Good or bad ?'

* Depends on how it is obtained.'

* Oh, it is to be got, then ?
' Yes.'

* By working ?'
'Sometimes.'

* Is it desirable ?

* Most people think so.'
' Does it exist ?

« Yes.'

* Does it appertain to a roan ?'

2 — 2

20 MADE OR MARRED.

*Yes.'

* Woman ?*

* Yes/

* Not a quality ?'

* I can't conscientiously say that it is a quality.'

* Is it everlasting ?*

* Far from it.'

* What is it like ?'

* Not a fair question, but I'll tell you. It has a different
appearance to everyone who looks at it.'

* Would you like it yourself?'

* I should like what I think is it.'

* Is it beneficial ?'

* Sometimes ; sometimes the very reverse.'

* What a queer thing ! Who dispenses it ?'

* The goddess who dispenses everything in the nine-
teenth century. Her name is Circumstance.'

* Nineteenth century ? Then it is a modern thing ?'
'It is as old as man's ambition,' said Philip, in-
cautiously, upon which Emilie, the second Miss Berghaus,
pounced upon him with the word :

* Success !'

And, on his nodding, hands were loudly and trium-
phantly clapped

* You are so very incautious, Massey,' said Hermann.
* Bless you ! I can keep them wandering round a thing

or an hour. You would never do to baffle a clever
Q.C

* Perhaps I am not ambitious of success in that line.
Miss Berghaus,' he added, turning to Thekla ; * may I
speak to you a minute about something ?'

* Certainly,' said Thekla^ quickly. She was always

' IVHAT IS SUCCESS f" 21

quick, both in speech and gesture, and even more so
with Philip Massey than with other people. * Suppose
we go into the garden. Would anyone else like to go
into the garden ?'

Several of the party followed the young lady's sugges-
tion, and presently she and Philip were pacing about
side by side on the broad walk in front of the drawing-
room window.

*The favour I wanted to ask is this,' said Philip.
*I have a sister at home whom I am very fond of.
There was some talk of her coming to Irkford, to go
in for the course at the Women's College, but I heard
the plan was given up. I did not go home at Whitsuntide,
so I only heard from my mother the other day that Grace
is really coming, after all. Of course she will live with
me, which I am glad of; but, you see, she does not
know Irkford in the least. I don't think she was ever
here in her life, and I know no ladies but yourselves,
and I am afraid she will find it awfully dull, or I would
not have asked. You have always been so very kind,
that '

*You want us to call upon her, I suppose? I am
sure we will do so with pleasure. Emilie and I will
call as soon as she comes. When do you expect
her?'

* To-day is Friday. I expect her to-morrow, for I
think her studies begin on Monday.'

* Yes, they do, I know ; because my sister Luise goes
to the Latin and mathematics course. Well, we will
call on Sunday, on our way home from church, and
you will bring her to spend Sunday evening with us —
yes ?'

22 MADE OR MARRED.

* Oh, thank you very much ! If you are quite sure
that Mrs. Berghaus '

* Mother will be quite agreeable. Come with me, and
I will tell her at once,' said the active and decided
Thekla ; and Philip was whhrled off to the drawing-room
again, and to Mrs. Berghaus, not quite sure how his
country-bred sister would look upon such extensive
Sunday visiting as was being planned out for her, but
glad that Thekla Berghaus displayed so friendly a
spirit.

Mrs. Berghaus confirmed all her daughter's promises
and invitations ; and then, turning to Philip, said :

* Mr. Massey, is not the junior partner of your firm
going to make a very grand marriage, sometime soon ?'

*Grey — yes. But I suppose it is more what you
would call an "alliance " than a marriage, isn't it ? Lady
Elizabeth Preston is her name.'

* Yes. She has no fortune ; but they say she is very
handsome and sensible. Are they going to live near
Irkford?'

* I really don't know. All I have heard is that there
are going to be great festivities for the work-people, and
a ball — for such as myself, and the aristocracy in general,
I suppose.'

* Mr. Grey is very nice, isn't he ?'

*Nice?' returned Philip, with his unfrequent smile.
*I don't think we men are given to speaking of one
another as nice. He is very well liked at the office.
Talk about success. Miss Berghaus,' he added, turning
to Thekla, ' I call him a signal instance of success, with-
out any particular reason why. He stepped into a
splendid fortune on his father's death; he is popular

i

' IVHAT IS SUCCESS r 23

and clever, and is going to contract an alliance with a
beautiful member of the aristocracy.'

* Is that success ?' asked Thekla, pensively.

' Now you ask, I really do not feel sure,' said Philip,
candidly.

At that moment refreshments were brought in, afte^
which the guests gradually dispersed, and Philip, walking
home, asked himself again if Mr. Grey's position could
be called a successful one. As he passed the gate of
No. 59, Lawrence Street, he noticed a light behind the
green blinds of the ground-floor bow-window.

*I wonder what she thought of our behaviour this
evening ?' he speculated. * By Jove 1 what a couple of
fools we must have looked T

CHAPTER HI.

SPECIAL SERVICE.

There was none of the usual adorning- for the weekly
cricket match required on Philip's part, on Saturday, the
da)^ following his visit to the Berghauses.

He had appointed to meet his sister Grace at half-past
four, and with a thoughtfulness unusual in one of his sex,
age, and bachelor estate, had ordered dinner to be ready
at his lodgings at six, and purposed dining with her. He
was therefore not going out of town at all until he re-
turned from the station with his sister.

The great firm in which Philip was employed usually
dismissed their employis on Saturday iat two o'clock.

24 MADE OR MARRED.

Philip Massey had seldom been kept beyond his time —
he was not important enough for that, he would have said
himself, and perhaps with truth. His department had
consisted chiefly of home-work, and his employment had
been regular, if not exciting. There had been times
when he had wished, in the superabundance of his
strength and energy, that his mission had been a more
active one — times when he had envied the more privi-
leged, more perilous tasks of some others, who were sent
abroad to the ends of the earth now and then, on en-
gineering and surveying expeditions, for which, if the
discomfort and responsibility were great, yet the remune-
.ation was correspondingly large, and the excitement,
bought Philip, must be most remunerative of alL No
such fortune had as yet befallen him.

To-day, bearing in mind the fact that he would have two
hours and a half to dispose of somehow, before his sister's
train was due, Philip was in no haste to depart, but sat
after all the other clerks had gone, at his desk, sorting out
papers, and classifying some plans which had long wanted
putting in order.

Thus employed, he sat at his desk, and his pen travelled
slowly across the paper, while the May sunshine streamed
in through the dingy window, and lighted up his dark face.
Philip's back was towards a door leading into the office of
Mr. Day, the head and confidential clerk, and which, with-
out his knowing it, was standing half open.

By-and-by voices were heard gradually approaching from
a further office, and then steps entered Mr. Day's sanc-
tum. Half-abstractedly Philip heard, without exactly lis-
tening to what was being said.

• Look here. Grey! Here's a letter just come from '

SPECIAL SERVICE. 25

(murmur, which sank into indistinctness, and then, more
loudly), * What became of those people, Blake — Black —
what was the name, who recommended Bywell to us ?*

* H'm !* replied the voice of Mr. Grey, the junior part-
ner, to this question of Mr. Starkie, the senior ; * wasn't it
somewhere out Edgeton way that they went ? On my
word, I don't remember them. But you know, I think it
is only these Chinese fellows grumbling a little. They like

to make difficulties, and the British consul at Y must

attend to them more or less, for the name of the thing.
I don't think there's anything in it'

* I'm not quite so sure that the grumbling is quite with-
out foundation, for my part,' replied Mr. Starkie. * I
wish very much that you would drive out to Edgeton this
afternoon, and make inquiries, quietly. I think it ought
to be seen to.'

* My dear sir !' came in a tone of dismay from Grey, * I
would do a great deal to oblige you, but this is impossible
to-day. I promised long ago to go from to-day till Mon-
day to ' The voice dropped again, and then came

thewords—' entirely for my benefit, you know, and Lady
Elizabeth — very sorry, but unless it were a matter of life
or death, which it is not, I don't see how I could
manage it.'

* Oh, if Lady Elizabeth is in the question,' began Mr.
Starkie, benevolently; and then they went out of the office
again, after which Philip heard steps along a passage, and
presently a single person entered Mr. Day's office, and
called his name, a little impatiently.

* Where is he ?' murmured Mr. Starkie, finding his call
unanswered, and sounding a gong in the hope of con-
juring up some reply.

26 MADE OR MARRED.

Philip rose from his seat, and went into the office.
Mr. Starkie stood there, an open letter in his hand

* I want Mr. Day,' he said

*Mr. Day has gone, sir. He had an appointment,
and he said, as there was nothing much doing this
morning, he had better go/

* Why must he choose just to-day to have an appoint-
ment ?* muttered Mr. Starkie, in vexation.

* Can I be of any use ?' asked Philip, thinking of the
time which still hung useless on his hands.

*You are not Mr. Day, sir,' was the curt reply; to
which obvious truth Philip murmured below his breath :

' No, I wish I were ;' and then added aloud : * But I
know where he lives, and I could go and fetch him,
if you like.*

At this Mr. Starkie looked more attentively at Philip,
and his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the young man's
face.

* Your wish to oblige makes you forget that, as Mr.
Day has an engagement, it would probably be lost time
to go after him,' he remarked. ' I think perhaps you
may serve my purpose as well as Mr. Day, or as well as
anyone but Mr. Day. At any rate I am going to try
you. Come with me.'

Philip followed his chief to his private room, and
there Mr. Starkie read over again the letter he held in
his hand

* You will not mention your errand of to-day to any
of your fellow-clerks,' he remarked.

* Certainly not,' replied Philip, steadily meeting the
piercing eyes which were fixed upon him.

' We are making a line of railway in China, in a rather

SPECIAL SERVICE. 27

out-of-the-way district Y is the port. It was

chieflf through the British consul at Y that we

undertook the job, and we entrusted the management
of it to BywelL I dare say you remember Bywell — he
was only here a week or two before he went out ?'

* Yes, I remember him. I never spoke to him, though,
or had any acquaintance with him.'

* He had to be invested with very considerable powers,
having English and Irish navvies under him, as well
as natives; and the absolute command of large sums
of money. « This was an important post for him, as you
may judge.'

'Certainly, sir.'

'Well, I need not go into particulars ; but to come to
the point, I have strong reasons for wishing to learn
something about Bywell. We had the best of references
with him from Blake and Robinson. He had been with
them for a year, and the reason given for his leaving was
that they had to reduce their staff of servants, which,
as they have failed since, seems likely enough. But I
must know more about him, if possible; though Mr.
Grey is not suspicious : but then,' in a tone of im-
patience, *he never will be suspicious, or anything
reasonable, until he is safely married to Lady Elizabeth
Preston.'

Philip smiled involuntarily, and bent his head to hide
his smile. Mr. Starkiq went on :

* Mr. Blake, one of the partners of the firm Bywell
was with, lives out at Edgeton now, in a small way, I
fancy. You can go and see him, and find out all you can.
If possible you must discover where he came from — the
original people who recommended him to Blakes, and

28 MADE OR MARRED.

what sort of character he was. And at the same time,
you must not let the cat out of the bag. Do you under-
stand ?'

* Perfectly. Do you want me to go this moment ?*

* Yes, as soon as ever you can. You must see what
a mess we shall be in if we get wrong with these people
who are so ticklish to deal with. I want to have the
affair settled as soon as possible,' said Mr. Starkie, who
looked vexed and harassed. * Why do you ask F

* If it were after five o'clock ' began Philip.

* After five ? A loss of hours ! Absurd !' said he,
testily. * What's to hinder you from going now ?'

* I ought to meet my sister — a young girl who has never
been here in her life before, at half-past four, that's all
I would not have mentioned it,' added Philip, apolo-
getically, * but I can't help it.'

In truth, he liked the idea of the expedition, and was
vexed to think of missing it, and at the same time sur-
prised to find himself confiding such details to the august
chief of the establishment.

* I would do anything to oblige you, but my mother
would never forgive me if I left Grace in the lurch —
Saturday afternoon, too.'

* Quite right,' said Mr. Starkie, looking tranquil again.
* Make your mind easy ; I'll go and meet your sister
myself; and do you be off as quickly as you can.'

* You, sir ?' ejaculated the astonished Philip. * I
couldn't think '

* Pshaw !' was the impatient retort. * Waste no more
time. I can't go and look after the fellow myself, it
would raise suspicion. If I could have done Grey's
errand, I would ; but the Lady Elizabeth might not have

SPECIAL SERVICE. 29

approved of the substitute. However, as this is your
sister, and not your sweetheart, who's to be met, it is
managed easily enough. At which station should she
arrive, and what is she like ?'

' She comes to the Pairy Street Station, by the train
from York ; and she's like — they say she's like me.'

* Very good ! Half-past four, you say ? I'll see to it.
And now, lose no more time. Good-day !'

' Must I let you know ?'

* Ah, yes ! If you get back to-night, I must trouble
you to come to my place to-morrow and report to me.
Any time.*

* Yes, sir ; I'll do my best,' said Philip, at last actually
taking his departure.

As he drove to the station, to take the train to Edgeton,
some six or eight miles out of Irkford, he had time to
realise that his mission really must be an important one.

* It must be,' he reflected, * for the governor to hurry
me off on the spot, and go and meet Grace himself I
can't get over that.'

• * • • «

It was almost eleven o'clock of the same night, when
Philip's hansom stopped at the gate of his dwelling-
place. Grace had come. There was a light behind
the green blinds, and — he looked towards the left hand —
yes, a light behind those other green blinds, too.

As Philip entered the narrow passage of the house, a
face, somewhat dolorous in expression, and, as he had
hinted to Mr. Starkie, strikingly resembling his own, was
put out of the door of his sitting-room, with a dubious,
inquiring look, till he had fairly entered, when the door
was flung wide open and a tall girl bounded — as much

30 MADE OR MARRED.

as such a small passage would allow bounding — out of
his parlour, and threw herself into his arms.

* My dear Phil 1 At last 1 How very bad of you \
How immensely you are improved ! I thought you
never were coming !' She dragged him into the sitting-
room. * That little moustache, oh, it's killing ! It is,
really ! But what have you been doing all this
time ?

* Did Mr. Starkie meet you all right, you unfortunate
child ?' asked Philip, holding her at arm's length, and
looking at her. * Allow me to return the compliment
You, also, are immensely improved.'

To view her, one must have said that in any case Grace
Massey must have been • a pleasant object to look upon.
Tall, dark, upright, she was perhaps somewhat amply
developed for seventeen ; with shoulders that were de-
cidedly broad, and hands by no means small ; all was yet
so harmoniously formed, and in such fine proportions,
as not to appear in the least awkward or ungainly. In
every movement was the free, elastic grace which covers,
or rather displays, vigour of constitution and strength
of limb, given by a healthy, outdoor life. Grace Massey
would never be a Hebe, but she might develop into a
Juno — a stately, dark-eyed dame — one could easily
imagine it. At the present moment she was all girl, all
sister.

* Did old Starkie meet you ? repeated Philip.

* " Old Starkie " did meet me, sir. When he came up
to me, taking off his hat, and saying, " Miss Massey, I
imagine," I thought that your manners were immensely
improved, but that you had aged very much, and '

* You preposterous gopse ! I hope you didn't give such

SPECIAL SERVICE.

31

a welcome to the aged impostor as you did just now to
the real brother.'

* Oh !* cried Grace, convulsed with laughter, * what a
frightful idea ! I behaved like — why, like anyone ought
to. Mr. Starkie saw me safe here, making profuse
apologies all the way for having deprived you of "so
great a pleasure," and all that He appreciated my
company, whatever other people may do.'

* The old humbug T said Philip, in much amusement
'Well, thank heaven you are here at last What da
you think of your quarters ? You might begin house-
keeping at once if you liked, by seeing after something
in the shape of food and drink for me, for I am nearly
starved.'

Grace rang the bell, remarking :

^ I may get accustomed to it in time, but just at first
this place gives me the sensation that I am in a paste-
board box, and must step and move gingerly, for fear my
feet should go through the floor, or my fist through the
walls.'

'They are rather thin, after the Foulhaven ones, I
confess,' he said. * Ah,' he added with a sigh of satis-
faction, as he seated himself before the meal which * his
widow ' had prepared for him ; * if you knew, my child,
what it is to be perishing with hunger in the midst of
plenty '

' When was your last meal ?'

* At a quarter before eight a.m. of the present day.'

* But where have you been, and what have you been
doing ?' she asked in amaze.

* Scouring the country for proofs of villainy which I
have not found.'

32 MADE OR MARRED.

* Proofs of villainy ?

* Never mind ! It's all in the way of business ; and in
the way of business too, I shall have to leave you to-
morrow till about four o'clock '

* Oh, Philip !'

'But some nice, young ladies whom I know, are
coming to call upon you, and invite you to their
house.'

* Have you really business to-morrow ?

* Really I have. I have to go and see Mr. Starkie.'

* It must be a most peculiar business that wants trans-
acting on Sunday.'

* Just what I expected you to say,' said Philip, and
gradually contrived to console her by promising to return
in the afternoon in plenty of time to go with her to the
Berghauses', and by painting Thekla and Emilie Berghaus
in the most attractive colours his imagination could
supply, till Grace said gravely :

' It seems to me, this Miss Thekla Berghaus must be
a very special friend of yours, Phil.'

* Nonsense !' said he, biting his lips, but not smiling
either, and rather glad to observe that Grace had begun
to yawn.

Despite her drowsiness they sat up late, talking over
past doings at their home at Foulhaven, where Philip
had not been for the last three years.

*I was twenty-three when last I left it,' he said, *a
mere lad. I wonder when I shall see it again. It is a
fine old place, Gracy, and I often feel sorry that none of
us followed my father's calling.'

* Tillers of the soil !' exclaimed Grace. * Oh, Philip,
there is so much more to do in a city life 1'

SPECIAL SERVICE. 33

* Much you know about a city life. Go to bed, and
dream that you have taken your degree.'
She laughed, took her candle, and left him.

CHAPTER IV.

MABELLE IN THE RAIN.

On Monday morning Philip and his sister sat at break-
fast. Grace was in high spirits, delighted with Thekla
and Emilie Berghaus — with the whole Berghaus family,
indeed, and certain that she would be very happy in
Irkford.

* I am sure I hope you will,* said Philip, absently, for
in truth he was thinking of other things, of his interview
with Mr. Starkie the day before, and how, on his report-
ing all the eiTorts he had made to learn something definite
about Bywell, and how they had resulted in nothing but
vague rumours that he was a very clever fellow, but some
said * wild,' others said * rash,' and yet another said he
was the best fellow in the world, and no man's enemy
but his own ; his chief had thanked him for his exertions,
and expressed himself perfectly satisfied, but had appeared
at the same time as if not quite at ease in his own mind
on the subject

Philip had lunched at Mr. Starkie's with him and his
family (the first time he had enjoyed that honour), and
had returned home to find Grace dressed in her very best,
drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves, and
dying with impatience to set off to Carlton Grove, Mr,

3

34 MADE OR MARRED.

Berghaus's house. Thekla, Emilie, and Hermann had
called that morning on their way from church, and she
was delighted with them.

* I suppose you will be going directly,' she added, on
this Monday morning, as she rose from the table and
went to the window. * Do you go to town on the top of
one of those rattling omnibuses ? How funny I'

* Yes, I must be off now,' he answered, also rising.

* Oh,' continued Grace, still looking out, * there is that
sweet-looking girl whom I noticed yesterday morning
when I was sitting at the window here, pining to go to
church. She came from the next house with her sister,
I suppose. The sister is really quite beautiful, though
I don't like her face, but the little one looks both pretty
and good. Look at her, Phil ! Do you know who they
are?*

Philip looked over her shoulder and saw the girl ot
whom he had said to Hermann Berghaus, 'that is
a school-girl;' the younger of the two ladies who had
arrived in a cab on Friday evening^ She was a tall,
slight, upright-looking girl, apparently about fifteen or
sixteen years old.

Philip took stock of her with an interest for which he
could hardly account, thinking of her all the time less as
an individual than as the sist.er of that other girl. She
was fair, with a bright, handsome, open face; bright hair,
bright eyes ; everything about her was bright, and there
was, besides, an indescribably sweet and good expression
in both eyes and mouth. She was dressed in soft grey
stuff, with a little black fichu about her shoulders, and a
small, compact, black straw hat crowning her shining
locks. She carried several books fastened together with

MABELLE IN THE RAIN. 35

a strap, and she was already equipped, gloved, finished,
* ready ' in every respect, as she stepped forth from the
house and took her way down the street. There was
something superior and refined about her appearance-
nothing slovenly. All was compact, neat, and well-
arranged.

^ Where can she be going at this hour ?* asked Grace,
following with her eyes the lithe, graceful figure of the
girl

* Probably to school,' said Philip, in a tone of indif-
ference.

* School — oh, very likely. There is a great big girls'
school near here, isn't there ?'

* Yes, in Carlton Road, close by. Lots of girls go-
hundreds. One's always seeing them up and down.'

^ But who is that girl ? Do you know ?'

* I don't. I saw two young ladies arrive in a cab the
other night. That's all I know about them. They lodge
there, I suppose.'

* Very likely. Well — oh, here is your omnibus, isn't it?
Good-bye.'

In another minute Philip had been carried out of sight
by the omnibus, and Grace was left to find her way to the
scene of her studies, the Women's College, the classes
of which she iiad prevailed upon a fond father and a
tender mother to allow her to attend.

Philip, from the top of the omnibus, soon caught sight
again of the figure of the school-girl, as he supposed her
to be. Yes ; she was just turning down the side-street
which led to the Girls' High School, and he had been
right in his conjecture.

* I wonder who on earth they can be ?' he speculated.

3—2

36 MADE OR MARRED.

Then an acquaintance sitting next to him began to speak
of other things, and Philip's speculations ceased.

Some days passed. The month of May gradually ad-
vanced, and the holiday hours of Whitsuntide seemed
forgotten in the roar and bustle of renewed work and
business.

Grace assured her brother again and again how very
happy she was, and Philip found her a pleasant com-
panion. The Yorkshire girl was full of life and spirit,
and a bright example of the boasted intelligence of her
native county ; having an ample fund of shrewdness and
common-sense — a * long head ' on her young shoulders,
and a warm, generous heart to boot. Honesty was her
chief characteristic — honesty of word, deed, and purpose
on her own part ; a love of honesty in others, and a
quickness in, as it were, scenting out dishonesty in all its
forms, and an intense, uncompromising detestation of it,
which, as Philip told her, w^as, on the whole, rather
troublesome than otherwise. But he smiled as he said
it, and Grace, with a secret thrill of pleasure, felt that he
loved her for that honesty, and that the salient feature of
his own character was the same thing, that, whatever he
might say in jest or satire, he was loyal to the backbone —
*jannock,' to use the expressive vernacular of Lancashire
and Yorkshire — that, his word once seriously pledged, be
it by no more ample formula than * yes,' or * no,' ' I will,'
or * I will not,' it would be kept at whatever cost, and
kept, not in letter only, but in the very spirit of his
promise.

A few days sufficed to make Grace satisfied that Thekla
and Emilie Berghaus were, au fond^ like her brother and
herself, * jannock,' and the friendship progressed with the

MABELLE IN THE kAlN. 37

rapid pace incidental to the friendships of honest boys and
girls in general. The Berghaus girls were unspoiled at
heart, though their training and education, their incessant
courses of balls and visits, and their life in a house whose
doors were always open, and which was scarcely ever void
of some kind of company, had given them a confidence
of manner and a somewhat artificial behaviour which had
at first rather puzzled, and almost repelled the country-
bred girl. But the genuineness which she soon found
beneath the surface quickly won her heart, while it was
very pleasant, even to a student at so advanced an academy
as the Women's College, occasionally to cast aside her
studies and partake of the social amusements to be found
at Carlton Grove. Compliments were not altogether
despicable, even to one who professed to be interested in
Mill's * System of Logic,' and the attention which Philip's
friends paid to his bright and handsome sister was by no
means disagreeable to her.

One morning, when it streamed with rain, somewhat
more than a week after Grace's arrival, Philip, a little
later than usual, rose from the breakfast-table and pre-
pared to take his way to town. Grace had been dis-
coursing again about their next-door neighbours, and
Philip had been more interested in the discourse than he
would have cared to confess. Whether from that reason
or not, he was three minutes late, and when he opened
the door and looked out the omnibus was just vanishing
round a corner, on its way to town. Buttoning up his
mackintosh and opening his umbrella, he decided to walk
as far as Carlton Road, and there take another omnibus,
or in default of that a cab, to the office.

He strode down the street with this object in view,

38 Made or marred.

and gradually gained on a figure he knew — the figure of
one of the girls Grace had been talking about — the girl
from next door, who went to the High School. To-day,
she was dressed in a long grey ulster cloaL Philip
checked his pace. He found an unaccountable pleasure in
walking behind her, as she stepped quickly forward, her
garments well-raised from the ground, and displaying
what seemed to Philip the very neatest and most com-
pact pair of rough-weather boots he bad ever seen, to-
gether with the merest suspicion of a dainty ankle, which
matched the rest of her lissom figure. She was walking very
rapidly, when a book slipped from under her arm, and
fell to the ground, while she unconsciously pursued her
way, the sound of the fall being drowned by the rattle of
a passing cart.

Philip stooped, picked up the book, and contemplated
it with a strange sensation of pleasure. It was, indeed, more of
a * find ' than might have been expected, for it was one of
her lesson books j and at a school where over three hun-
dred girls daily assemble, it is natural and necessary that
each one should have her name legibly inscribed on her
property. What Philip saw, therefore, on picking up the
book, was a small volume covered with shiny black calico
or linen, on which was pasted a white label, with *Irkford
High School for Girls ' printed on it, and below, the
following inscription : * Name, Mabelle Fairfax : number
of form, upper fifth.' This was not all. Above the
white label was a vivid yellow one, on which was in-
scribed, in red letters, the word * Poison.' It was such
a label as chemists put upon little bottles containing
dangerous drugs.

Philip Massey, walking quickly onwards, soon mastered

MABELLE IN THE RAIN. 39

each and all of these details, and implanted the name
Mabelle Fairfax, which was certainly easy enough to re-
member, firmly on his mind. Then, with a few long strides,
he overtook the girl, and, raising his hat, said :

* Pardon me, but you have just dropped this book.'

* Oh,' said she, coming to a full stop, and, in strictly
feminine fashion, searching through the books she held,
in order to make sure that the one he held out to her was
not amongst them, * so I have ! I am much obliged to
you. I was in such a hurry this morning that I had no
time to strap them up.'

She held her hand out for it, but Philip, remarking,
*It is quite wet and dirty wath having fallen on the
pavement,' drew forth his handkerchief and wiped it.

* Oh,' said Mabelle Fairfax, smiling, * what a pity to
spoil your handkerchief.'

* Not at all. If you are going to school '

* Yes, I am.'

* Perhaps you will allow me to carry your books for you :
I am going as far as Carlton Road'

* You are very kind. I don't like to trouble you,' said
she ; and Philip, smiling, took her bundle of books, and
they walked side by side to Carlton Road.

*May I ask why you label your French Grammar
* Poison ' ?' he inquired
The girl laughed.

* It was not I who did it,' said she, * but one of the
other girls. Her French verbs seemed to afflict her very
much, and she said they were worse than poison. I don't
know where she got the labels, I'm sure, but she appears
to rejoice in them very much — more than if she had
mastered the verbs, without calling them poison.'

40 ■ MADE OR MARRED.

She laughed again, and Philip noticed in her voice and
speech the same refinement as that which had struck
him in her sister ; while in her manner there was a dis-
tinction, a polish, and a perfect absence of affectation,
a fresh girlishness, which were charming.

* Then you don't think so badly of French verbs your-
self P he said.

*I — no. I think the French they give us here is
baby French. I can do all the lessons we have except
the arithmetic'

* You find the arithmetic pretty stiff?'

* I find it impossible to bend it at all so as to suit my
weak intellect Those dreadful sums about express trains
starting off at so many miles an hour, and other ones
having to go after them and overtake them in a given
time. Dreadful !'

Philip laughed.

' Those are simple enough. Perhaps you are not fond
of arithmetic'

*I am utterly without the capacity to do it,' said
Mabelle, resignedly. *But Angela says I must study
that more than anything else, if I want to get my cer-
tificate, and I suppose I must manage that, whatever
happens.'

'Angela,' repeated Philip, pronouncing the name
lingeringly, for the sake of uttering it. Angela and
Mabelle Fairfax. It was no Irkford name, any more
than they (he was quite certain) were Irkford people.

* My sister, I mean. You are the gentleman who lives
next door to us. And is that lady your sister — the one
with the dark eyes, who is so handsome ?'

* Yes, that is my sister— Grace,' said Philip, secretly

MABELLE IN THE RAIN. 41

feeling extremely gratified that he and Grace had been
objects of notice and speculation to at least one Miss
Fairfax — possibly to the other, too.

' I thought she was. Sometimes she goes to college
at the same time that I go to school Oh !* continued
Mabelle, as they caught sight of an omnibus, which
Philip made no attempt to take, * how I should like to
ride on the top of an omnibus I'

* Would you ? You cannot think it is a pleasant mode
of conveyance.'

* I suppose not. But I have never even been inside one.'
(This admission spoke volumes to Philip.) * Angela
thinks they are dreadful, but she is obliged to go in them
sometimes, when her pupils live quite out of town.'

* Pupils !' echoed Philip, intelligently.

* Yes. She teaches music to a great many girls at the
High School, and she has other pupils out of town. It
is when she goes to them that she has to ride in the
omnibus.'

*I see,' said Philip, greatly desiring to ask several
questions, but feeling, with instinctive delicacy, that to do
so would be to take a mean advantage of her. She had
betrayed the fact that they were poor. He would have
given much to know if they had always been so.

* Is it your sister whom I have often heard playing and
singing ?' he inquired, venturing on that question as a
safe one.

* Yes. Does she not play well, and sing too ? Only
she says that giving lessons is enough to take all the music
out of one. I don't know : I think if one has music in
one, nothing will drive it out.'

They had now got into Carlton Road, and just as

42 MADE OR MARRED.

Philip was wondering how many school-girls were in the
habit of having such thoughts, and so expressing them,
she turned to him, saying :

'Thank you for carrying my books, but I will not
trouble you any longer.'

He put them into her hand, feeling that though he
was a stalwart young man of six-and-twenty, and she a
little school-girl of some fifteen or sixteen years, he had
received his dismissal in a most decided shape: Mabelle,
with a gracious smile, and a dignified yet cordial little
bow, wished him good-morning, and continued her way
to school.

He watched her until she had disappeared within its
gates, and then he hailed a hansom, and while he drove
to town he sat staring at his wet umbrella, wondering
and conjecturing mightily as to the past, present and
future of his neighbours.

* Angela Fairfax !' he repeated to himself. * And she
gives music lessons, and she has that little darling of a
sister. What a sweet, bright, dignified little lady she is I
Such a lady, too T thought Philip, raising his eyebrows.
* By George ! She must be a contrast to some of her
school-fellows 1'

Lost in reflections upon this subject, he arrived at the
office.

ANGELA. 43

CHAPTER V.

ANGELA.

* There be angels, and some be of light, and some be of darkness.'

* Come, Philip, aren't you ready ?'

It was the voice of Grace which broke in upon his
reverie one evening early in June, and suddenly rousing
himself and looking up, he beheld his sister in a becom-
ing gown of grey, with crimson knots scattered about
it ; she was drawing on a pair of gloves, and was evidently
armed for conquest.

* Ready ? What's the matter ? Where are you going?'
he asked, starting, as he closed the book over which he
appeared to have been dreaming.

* What a memory you have ! Or rather, what a memory
you want ! Have you forgotten that there is a sort of
party at the Berghaus's this Saturday evening, and we
promised a week ago to be there? There will be dancing,
too j and I do love dancing. Therefore come, sir 1'

Philip roused himself and got ready as rapidly as
might be, less because he wished to go than because he
would not disappoint the fresh and expectant Grace,
whose appetite for dances and festivities of every de-
scription was still on the increase, and, as Philip saw,
still very far from being surfeited. When he was ready
they went out, found a cab at the comer of the street,
and drove to Carlton Grove.

The so-called * carpet-dances,' or 'Saturday dances,'
at that house were very pleasant affairs, and justly cele-
brated throughout the whole circle of the Berghauses'

44 MADE OR MARRED.

friends and acquaintance. * Carpet-dance * was a mis-
nomer; no invitations were sent out, but it was a generally
understood thing that on Saturday evenings throughout
the year the house was open to all friends who chose to
come to it; and if sufficient guests arrived there was
dancing, not on a carpet, but in a large room built as a
billiard-room, but which the Berghaus family had from
time immemorial given up to the more social entertain-
ment. Thekla Berghaus held strong views on the sub;
ject of billiards, wliich she considered very appropriate
in a bachelor establishpient, or in one where there were
many men ; but where the womankind predominated, to
be eschewed, as unfair and tyrannical to them and their
interests.

*It makes brothers horridly selfish,' she was wont
to say. *They go shutting themselves up with their
claret and cigars, and are always asking what they call
"a fellow or two" to spend the evening; but it is to
spend it with them behind the billiard-room doors, while
we languish in the drawing-room with novels and fancy-
work.'

Hermann, being of a peaceful disposition, had never
quarrelled with this arrangement, and assuredly the friends
who came to those Saturday evenings were not disposed
to do so.

Some twelve or fourteen guests were already assembled
when Philip and his sister arrived, and the dancing had
begun. Grace was quickly engaged, and was soon bliss-
fully lost in the mazes of a waltz ; while Philip stood by
the door, seeing no other lady disengaged, and feeling,
for some reason, averse to dancing.

Thekla Berghaus came up to him, looking * as fresh as

ANGELA. 45

mom, as fair as May,' in her clear white dress, blue
ribbons, and shining hair.

* Miss Berghaus ! I thought you were dancing.'

* No, I have been settling the elders and some friends
of their own age to a rubber. Besides,' added Thekla,
magnanimously, *I make it a rule, as the eldest girl,
never to begin dancing the first thing. I think it is due
to my guests to see them fairly started.'

' Most laudable I But, as every lady but yourself is
dancing already, don't you think you could give me just
the end of this waltz ?*

* No, Mr. Massey, I do not,' said Thekla, composedly,
as she sat down and pointed to a chair at her side. * You
don't usually condescend to act a part, but you are doing
so when you ask me to dance with you now. You don't
want to dance in the least.'

* Ah, my dear Miss Berghaus, don't you think it would
be rather terrible if everj'one at a dance '

* Were to come forward with such quibbling objections
as those I have just raised ? Of course, it would be
dreadful! But I always fancied that to you I could
speak more plainly. I thought you did not like shams.'

* I do not,' said Philip, earnestly, * and I was only
jesting when I spoke so. You have been such a good
friend to me. Miss Berghaus, and you are so good to
Grace '

* Oh, nonsense ! I like Grace so much ; and as for
being good to her, it is not the right expression ; she
hardly requires people to be good to her. How hand-
some she looks to-night !'

The dance was over. Philip offered Thekla his arm,
and suggested they should take a turn in the garden.

46 MADE OR MARRED,

* Oh, with pleasure/ said she, as they came out into
the square hall. * By the way, Mr. Massey, two friends
of mine are coming to-night with whom I want to make
Grace acquainted, for they live next door to you, and
they are oh, there they are !'

She withdrew her hand from his arm, and went to
meet two figures descending the staircase. Philip stood
below in the hall and watched. The figures were tall and
slight, one dark and one fair. As they came downstairs
and stood speaking to Thekla, the young man almost
rubbed his eyes in astonishment and doubt. Could it
— was it — yes, that was most certainly the bright hair and
sweet face of Mabelle Fairfax, and that other — his eyes
flew quickly towards her — ^yes, he instantly recognised the
strange and beautiful face ; the pale, creamy-white com-
plexion ; the long, velvet-soft, almond-shaped eyes, with
their fringe of curved lashes ; the low, white forehead,
with the dusky hair rippling in natural waves across it.
How beautiful she was ! Instead of moving, he stood
rooted in his place, watching them with a grave, earnest
intentness. They did not appear to see him, Thekla
was talking rapidly.

* So glad you have come ! I began to think you were
going to fail us, and I should have been so disappointed,
because Miss Massey is here, and '

Philip, still looking at the group of girls, encountered
most distinctly at this moment a slow, seemingly casual
glance from the beautiful eyes before spoken of; Heavens !
he thought, what eyes they were ! That look set his heart
beating, and all he was conscious of was the eager hope
that Thekla would remember that Grace had a brother
and introduce him. Thekla did so at this moment.

ANGELA. 47

* Miss Massey, you know, of whom I spoke to you ;
she lives next door to you, with her brother, and is a
great friend of mine.' (Three days' acquaintance with a
congenial spirit sufficed to turn any of Thekla's favourites
into a great friend.) *And I want you to know her.
Meanwhile, let me introduce her brother.'

The whole trio turned, and another of those slow,
fascinating regards was bestowed upon Philip.

* Mr. Massey, Miss Fairfax, Miss Mabelle Fairfax, old
friends of ours, who have just come to live in Irkford'

Philip bowed profoundly, slowly, prolonging the saluta-
tion in part because he suddenly felt himself tongue-tied.
Mabelle said nothing, but her cheek dimpled, and 'there
was a smile in her eyes. Miss Fairfax did speak, saying:

* I have seen both Mr. Massey and his sister go past
our lodgings several times.'

*Well, let us go and find his sister,' said Thekla.

* Shall we go into the drawing-room, or oh, Mrs.

Lee!'

She advanced to receive a batch of fresh arrivals; and
Philip found himself alone with the Misses Fairfax.

* Have you lost any more books since I last saw you?'
was the only thing Philip could think of as an opening
remark.

* I, no !' said Mabelle, laughing. * It was Mr. Massey,
Angela, who carried my books for me that day — don't
you remember ?*

* I think ' began Angela, when Luise, the youngest

daughter of the house of Berghaus, came rushing up,
and claimed Mabelle with much jubilation as her own.
They vanished, and Thekla was still receiving new
arrivals.

48 MADE OR MARRED.

* Shall I take you into the drawing-room?' asked
Philip, offering his arm to Miss Fairfax.

A smile, melancholy, but very sweet, crossed her face,
as she said, raising her eyes in an appealing manner
which led one to think * How beautiful ! and how help-
less :'

* Thanks, if you do not mind*

' The answer, after the appealing look, might have struck
a caviller as somewhat tame, but Philip only saw the
magic of her eyes, and heard the pathetic softness of her
voice.

They went into the drawing-room, which was half full
of people.

* Do you know anyone here ?* asked Philip.

* Not a creature, except the Berghauses. I am a per-
fect stranger in Irkford.'

* And what do you think of it ?* he inquired again.
They were seated now on a settee in a comer. Miss

Fairfax shook her head, with the same melancholy, be-
wildering smile, and raised her eyes again slowly, as she
said, with a sigh :

* I do not like it I must try to get accustomed to it,
as it will most likely be my home for the rest of my life,
and I have heard that it is not wise to quarrel with one's
bread and butter — or even with one's dry crusts,' she
added, in an undertone.

* The rest of your life !' echoed Philip, immediately
deciding that she was engaged to some fellow whose busi-
ness was at Irkford.

Why had he not thought before of such an obvious
possibility ?

* Yes ; the rest of my life. After misfortunes such as

ANGELA. 49

I have gone through, the merest shelter seems like a
palace, and one clings to it, and fears to lose it.'

Philip looked at her with respectful sympathy ; on hear-
ing these mystic words, his curiosity, his admiration and
commiseration all on fire. He was quite unconscious
that he was gazing at Miss Fairfax in a manner more
intent and prolonged than is usually thought desirable
upon a ten minutes' acquaintance. But how was it pos-
sible to help it, with the tones of that sweet and melan-
choly voice echoing in his ears — with that beautiful pale
face, those mysterious, dreamy eyes, and that pensive,
low white forehead, constantly turned towards him? Her
voice, her looks, her very proximity exercised a strange,
sudden, subtle fascination over him, more like intoxica-
tion — more like the effects of some potent drug — than
like the gradual drawing into intimacy, friendship, or
love with some ordinary, mortal woman.

•Whatever may have happened in the past, I am sure
you are not doomed to live in Irkford all your life,'
he said, though, half-an-hour ago 'doomed' would not
have occurred to him as the most appropriate word with
which to describe a residence in Irkford.

Again the strange, melancholy smile, slow shake of the
head, and raising of the eyes.

'It does not bear talking about,' said she. 'Have
they been dancing long ?'

' Only one dance, I think. May I hope for the pleasure
of a dance, Miss Fairfax, if you are not engaged ?'

' I engaged ! Who would be likely to engage me ?'

* Anyone who got the chance, I should suppose,' said
Philip, stoutly. * But may I ? I hope you like dancing?'

4

50 ^fADE OR MARRED.

*With pleasure. I used to be passiojiately fond of
waltzing in days gone by,' said Angela.

* Then may I have the next waltz ?'

'With pleasure,' repeated Miss Fairfax, with melan-
choly sweetness, as her eyes wandered through the room.
* Do you know any of the people here ?* she added.

* Yes \ most of them, either personally or by name.'

* Then tell me who is that man, with the roundish face,
and hair just beginning to turn grey, who is standing at
the other side of the room looking at us ?'

Philip looked, not particularly anxious to observe any-
one or anything but herself.

A man, * with a roundish face, and hair just beginning
to turn grey,' as she had said, stood looking at them.
He was a commonplace-looking man j too benign in ex-
pression to be absolutely vulgar, but certainly with no
graces of person or deportment to recommend him. His
face was round, his eyes had a certain shrewdness in
them, his pursed-out under lip hinted at decision of
character. He was observing Angela and Philip earnestly
and gravely ; he must have seen the long, devoted gaze
of the latter, and the formidable mlladts of the former
(not being in Philip's state of mind with regard to Miss
Fairfax, nothing remains to the author but to describe
that young lady's looks and gestures in the language of
the outer world), but the spectacle appeared to call forth
no expression, either of amusement, contempt, or in-
telligence, to his face j only one of a placid, but decided
interest.

* That,' said Philip, smiling a liitle. * Oh, that is an
odd, old fellow — rather a muff, I fancy — who once re-
ceived an invitation to one of these Saturday evenings.

ANGELA. 51

and has attended them faithfully ever since. No one can
tell what he comes for, unless, as Miss Berghaus declares,
he is looking out for a wife amongst her friends.'

* A wife ! Is he not married ?*

* On the contrary, he is a rich old bachelor, in the
cotton-broking line, I believe.'

* How funny ! and what is his name ?'

* Fordyce. George Fordyce. Poor old fellow ! I
often feel sorry for him, but I really believe he is an
awful rauff.'

* Ah !' said Angela, with a little smile, as if she had
heard quite as much as she wanted to know about Mr.
Fordyce.

At that moment the man at the piano began to play
a set of quadrilles. Philip, with a hasty apology to Miss
Fairfax, rushed away, in an eager search for Thekla Berg-
haus. At last he found her, and by dint of unseemly
haste contrived to forestall a second young man who was
also advancing towards her.

* Miss Berghaus,' said Philip, bending over her, * may
I have the pleasure of this dance with you ?'

His face was flushed; his eyes were eager; he looked
very handsome, and very anxious for the favour he asked.
Thekla looked at him, once, twice; then said, in a matter-
of-fact voice :

* Yes, I shall be very happy ; a quadrille, is it not ?'
She rose, took his offered arm, and they went towards

the ballroom, but paused in the hall. ,

* Miss Berghaus, don't think me very curious or im-
pertinent, but tell me, who is Miss Fairfax ? Have she
and her sister had great misfortunes, or something ?'

Thekla looked at him again, and saw the same eager

4—2

52 MADE OR MARRED.

look in his eyes — the same flush and animation upon
his face. Was it the waning daylight that caused a
change, or did her own fresh cheek fade a little ?

She was leaning against the table in'the middle of the
hall, and trifling with a paper-cutter which lay upon it, as
she answered :

* I can easily tell you all about them. Their father
was a clergyman, the Rev. John Felix Fairfax, vicar of
Nenside, where the beautiful old abbey is, you know.
Their mother was a lady of title, who died many years
ago. They have been brought up very quietly, but in
great refinement, as you may see. Their father was a
very learned man, and a great amateur of all kinds of
beautiful and artistic — and expensive — things. He wasted
a lot of money in pictures, and Venetian glass, and medals,
and pots, and things, and when he died, about eighteen
months ago, they were left very badly off. They have a
Utile income — a very, very little; not enough for one

, person to live upon entirely. Angela, the eldest, has a
great talent for music ; I'll get her to sing soon '

* Oh, thank you !' said Philip, fervently, at which
Thekla's lips tightened a little, and she went on :

* And her talent has been very highly cultivated. For
some time after their father's death they lived most un-
comfortably and unhappily, first with one relation and
then another, till, at last, an old friend of their father's
got Angela the post of music-governess at the High
School, and several private pupils as well. If she will
persevere she may get on very well'

* What a change from her former life !' murmured
Philip, mournfully.

* Naturally,' replied Thekla, in the same matter-of-fact

ANGELA. 53

tone ; * but she is very fortunate in being so soon and so
advantageously provided for. And Mabelle, her sister,
goes to school She is a sweet little creature ; really, a
little angel of brightness and gentleness, and yet so
clever and sprightly. I quite dote upon her.'

* But Miss Fairfax,* began Philip.

* Yes, Miss Fairfax ; what were you going to say about
her?'

* No doubt her sister is a charming young girl, but she
will never approach Miss Fairfax in — in anything.'

* Angela is a woman ; Mabelle is a girl. One can't
compare them,' was all Thekla would say. * We have
known them for a long time. Papa used to go and fish
at Nenside, and that was how we first knew them. I
only found out the other day that they were here, so near
us, and you too.'

* And with your usual goodness you took compassion on
them as you have done on me and Grace,' said Philip, a
light of unaffected admiration and candid goodwill in his
eyes as they rested upon Thekla's face.

* Oh, nonsense ! Do you think Grace would really like
to know her ?*

* I am absolutely certain of it.'

' Very good ! She shall, then. Do you know, Mr.
Massey, that we have been talking so long here in the
hall that the quadrille is over ?'

* Impossible !' said Philip, looking up, and too pre-
occupied to observe the long searching look with which
Thekla favoured him.

Her face grew colder as the look grew longer. It was
with rather a hard little smile that she listened as he
muttered an excuse about being engaged for the next
dance— Miss Fairfax— look for her— and so left her.

54 MADE OR MARRED.

Angela was still seated on the same settee as before,
and beside her Mr. Fordyce, the man who had been
looking at them and whom they had been talking about.
Miss Fairfax was in the act of bestowing one of her long,
inexplicable glances upon her companion, when she
caught sight of Philip approaching, and the glance con-
tinued to travel upwards until it met his, and remained
there, inquiringly, as if she wondered what brought him
to her again.

*Our dance, I believe. Miss Fairfax,' said Philip,
ignoring Mr. Fordyce as completely as if he had had no
existence.

* Ours !' she repeated with a start. ' Did I say I would
dance ? I must have forgotten.'

But she rose, took Philip's arm, and was going, turning
round first to Mr. Fordyce to ask in a low, gentle voice
for her fan, which he held in his hand.

He gave it to her ; and perhaps a sweet glance mi^ht
have its glamour for the elderly Mr. Fordyce as well as
for Philip Massey. The latter led his partner to the ball-
room, where the waltz was just beginning.

After it was over, Thekla, as good as her word, took
the opportunity of making the Fairfaxes and Grace
Massey acquainted. Philip, standing by, anxiously
watched the proceedings, particularly the demeanour of
his sister Grace. Grace, as must have been apparent
already, was of a particularly candid disposition, and
Philip, observing her, and knowing her different expres-
sions, felt a thrill of bitter disappointment as he saw the
cold, unresponsive look which crossed her face as An-
gela Fairfax, with one of her longest, most languishing
glances, and her most honeyed smile, spoke some words

ANGELA. 55

which Philip did not hear, and held out her hand with
what seemed to him an exquisite, timid grace.

What could Grace mean ? Philip did not notice that
though Thekla spoke pleasant words, her voice was hard;
that though her lips smiled, her eyes were blue as steel
and cold as ice. He was most interested in the demean-
our of his sister and Angela, and his eyes travelled from
the one face to the other, and then settled finally upon
that of Angela again, and remained there, till he found a
sigh breaking from his lips unawares, while his heart
beat, and he thought — could think nothing else — * How
beautiful she is ! How beautiful !'

The rest of the evening he spent in watching Miss
Fairfax — listening to her while she sang. Whatever her
native talent or taste in the matter of music, Angela
Fairfax had been too well taught to sing rubbish. Her
voice was an exceptionally fine one, and vocal music, like
instrumental, had this peculiarity, that, provided time
and tune and the conventional modulations of tone be
kept, an enthusiastic listener can always find passion,
expression, depth — all that he feels in his own heart — in
the sounds.

So it was with Philip that night. While she sang he
almost closed his eyes, and listened in a kind of rapture.
When it was over he opened them again and saw that
she was surrounded by quite a little knot of admirers,
who were pressing her to sing again. Her eyes stole a
glance in his direction, and seemed to ask reproachfully :

'Why are you sitting outside, and holding yourself
aloof?'

When the evening was over, Angela and her sister and
Philip and his sister walked home together, under the

56 MADE OR MARRED.

moon and the lamps, through the prosaic suburban streets
of Irkford, which, for one of the party, had been so
commonplace before, but which now could never be so
Again,

CHAPTER VI.

ANGELA'S REASONS, FOR AND AGAINST.

When July comes to an end the colleges and schools of
Irkford break up for their holidays, and there ensues a
regular stampede of teachers, and pupils, and parents to
the Lakes or the seaside. Continent or country — * any-
where, anywhere out of the town ' — away from its dust,
its smoke, its close and stifling heat, from its rolling carts
and omnibuses, its dingy streets, out into the fields if
possible, or to the fair seashore, or amidst the cool and
mighty lakes and mountains.

When August has fairly set in Irkford is wont to look
empty; the squares are deserted, the shops little troubled
by customers, whilst the young women behind the
counters droop and look limp, and white, and bleached
like every other living thing in the unwholesome heat of
a town.

It was the beginning of August in this particular year
of which I am writing. The day was Monday, and it
was a Bank holiday. The heat in the town was stifling ;
not a cloud was to be seen in the dull blue sky, save the
dun-coloured shroud of smoke which encircled Irkford,
and through which the sun glared unwinkingly, like a
ball of molten brass. Hot, hot everywhere ! Hot in

Angela's reasons, for and against. $7

the monstrous warehouses ; hot in the dim and dusty
offices ; hot on the hard stone pavements of the squares
and in the narrow streets. Hottest of all, perhaps, in
the rows of thinly -built suburban houses, with their
inadequate blinds, and flimsy walls, and ill-fitting
windows.

In the parlour occupied by Angela and Mabelle
Fairfax they both sat this broiling morning. The blinds
were drawn down to keep the sun out ; the windows
were shut to keep the dust out ; and yet it was hot —
stiflingly hot

* How awjul it is !* ejaculated Miss Fairfax from the
sofa upon which she had flung herself, and upon which
she lay, languidly waving a fan up and down — her face
rendered more pallid and marble-white than ever by the
great heat. Nature is much kinder in this respect to
some of her children than to others, and, as usual, arbi-
trary and capricious in her favours. For example, exces-
sive heat did not give Angela Fairfax a red face, nor
Philip Massey either — it rendered them rather better
looking than before ; but its efiect upon the countenance
of Mr. Fordyce was indeed lamentable.

* How awful !' repeated Angela. * If it is half as cold
here in winter as it is hot in summer, I shall //;> /'

No answer from Mabelle, who sat at the centre table,
her rapid fingers deftly manipulating a straw hat and
some black gauze — an employment tending to produce
stickiness of the fingers in that temperature, and who
did not complain of the heat, nor of anything else. Her
sweet face was paler than it had been ; her eyes some-
what dark and heavy ; while in her whole attitude there
was a drooping listlessness, telling of weariness.

58 AfADE OR MARRED.

' When I think of the rectory, and Nenside, and the
gardens, this is intolerable, and I could scream P pursued
Miss Fairfax, who had a way of emphasising the last
words of her remarks.

* No doubt it is pleasant at Nenside now,' her sister
acquiesced

* Pleasant 1 I should think so. Oh, this is a miser-
able life that I lead! How I hate and loathe it!
Drudgery and slavery all day and all the week — and for
what ? A pittance / That I — that a Fairfax should ever
have come to such a pass !'

* Dear Angela, people have been very kind to us. I
am sure we seem to have lots of friends, and look how
many pupils you have already.*

' Vulgar wretches ! Shopkeepers' children, and Dis-
senters' children, and — all kinds of horrid people's
children.'

* I can't say that I see so much vulgarity in them.'
*You are hopelessly devoted to what is low and

horrid'

* Indeed !' said Mabelle, raising her head with flashing
eyes, and a heightened colour, and lips parted to utter
some comment upon this gracious remark. Suddenly
she closed her lips, pressing them together, and bending
again to her work, maintained silence, after that one
irrepressible * Indeed !'

*At what time does this wonderful entertainment
begin P' was Angela's next inquiry.

* Half-past ten they were to call for us, and it is half-
past nine now.*

' Half-past ten ! Imagine setting off on a day like this
to 2i picnic I A Bank holiday, too! All the town will

ANGELAS REASONS y FOR AND AGAINST. 59

turn out, and we shall look exactly like a party of cheap-
trippers. For my part, I can't see the pleasure of such
expeditions.'

* Why go, if you think it will tire you, and that you
won't enjoy it ?'

* How ridiculous you are ! Of course, I must go.
What could I do here all day? There will be two or
three people in addition to our two selves. How sick
people do get of each other's society, to be sure !'

* Thanks for the compliment.'

* Well, you must own, Mabelle, you are hardly society
for me — you '

* No, I suppose not. One may be useful as a milliner
without being exactly company for one's customers.'

* Oh, as if I meant that ! What horrid things you do
say. You know what I mean. You are a child.'

* I thought children got on best together,' said Mabelle,
meekly, but with an odd curl at the corner of her lips.

* What ? At any rate there is one human being to-day
who will be more entertaining than my adored pupils and
their delightful parents.'

Mabelle made no answer, but her delicate eyebrows
contracted, while Angela went on, in a more amiable
tone, as of one inviting question or comment :

* Poor Mr. Massey !'

To this also she received no reply, but Mabelle's face
was flushed, and she gave an impatient jerk to the hat
she was trimming.

' He really must be a very good creature, despite his
disagreeable sister,' continued Angela, discussively.

* If you mean Grace, I don't think she is at all dis-
agreeable.'

6o MADE OR MARRED.

* Not to you, perhaps; if you had the misfortune to be
twenty-two years old, and an object of admiration to her
brother, she might favour you, too, with a share of her
ill manners. Really, the way in which these sisters are
jealous of their great clumsy brothers is too ridiculous.
They seem to think that every woman who meets them
will set her cap at them. Thekla Berghaus is just as
ridiculous about Hermann, as if I would look at a child
like him !*

* The question is, whether a child like him would look
at you. He seems to me to have no eyes for anyone but
Grace Massey.'

* Grace Massey !* exclaimed Angela, with a deep flush.
* Just fancy ! How deep she is 1 It would be a splendid
thing for her ; the Berghauses are so rich.'

* But they are both children yet,' observed Mabelle.

* So they are T assented Angela, again becoming silent
for a space, until she slowly raised herself from the couch,
saying, * It is time to dress, I suppose.'

* Dress for a visit to the country — to spend the day in
the woods ?*

* I hope you will have that hat ready in time; we have
not so very long,* replied her sister. * I wonder,* she
added, pausing thoughtfully, while her beautiful eyes
rested reflectively upon the green tablecloth — * I wonder
how much a year people in Philip Massey's position get,
and what prospects they have of preferment'

* What can it be to us— to you, I mean ?* said Mabelle,
hastily.

' My love, it is a great deal to me, for I am quite sure
he is going to propose to me (and how enraged his sister
will be!). And how could I possibly give him any

Angela's reasons, for and against. 6i

answer unless I knew something definite in that
respect ?*

* For shame, Angela T said the girl, raising an angrily
flushed face and flashing eyes. *To hear you talk is
enough to make one '

But Angela, with a slight, amused laugh, had dis-
appeared, and presently Mabelle heard her moving about
in the room above, * dressing ' for the expedition they
were about to make.

* I have a good mind not to go,' muttered the younger
girl, whose fingers, despite her evident agitation, never
ceased their work.

Mabelle's fingers were deft in the extreme in all such
matters as this ; those of Miss Fairfax refused to bend to
any such servile employment.

* Really,' she was wont to say, when wishful to appear
a very devoted sister, * when one has a sister with such
ingenious fingers, it makes one idle.'

' I have a good mind not to go. I believe Angela will
break my heart if she behaves in this way. What is there
in our life to make her miserable or dissatisfied, or to be
ashamed of? And to flirt as she does with Philip
Massey — if she means to treat him as she treated Harry
Baldwin — oh, shall I ever forget his face that morning,
after papa had told him Angela wished the engagement
broken off! Philip Massey is so true — he believes in
her so implicitly. I cannot bear to see him deceived,
but I cannot bear to stay at home and imagine it alL'

With that she put the last stitch into her work, swept
up her materials into a basket, and then ran upstairs with
the hat

* Only ten minutes to get ready in ! Here is your hat.

63 MADE OR MARRED.

Angela,' said she, laying it down, and beginning to get
herself ready.

*Are you going in that horrid thick serge frock and
heavy hat?' ejaculated Miss Fairfax, with more animation
than usual.

* I suppose I must, unless I decide to go in nothing at
all,' said Mabelle, a little dryly, and looking with a some-
what envious eye at her sister's dress of cool white
cambric, and fresh black bows, which her clever little
fingers had chiefly made.

* Really, Mabelle, you say things sometimes which are
absolutely coarse. Oh, the hat looks not half bad, does
it? Allons ! Qiien dites vousy M, MasseyV and she
made a reverence to her reflection in the looking-glass.

It was the only thing she did reverence — so Grace
Massey has since been known uncharitably to say ; but
girls are given to judging from appearances.

Then Angela went downstairs, and Mabelle succeeded
in getting a view of her own face, and of the effect pro-
duced by the * horrid thick serge frock, and heavy hat,'
both of which looked decidedly unseasonable attire for a
picnic on a very hot day in August.

* I should not mind having a white frock and a straw
hat,' sighed Mabelle ; * but what I have not got I cannot
wear — that's certain. Where's my sunshade ? Oh, here 1
Now, I suppose, I may as well go down.'

She descended the stairs and went into the sitting-
room, still kept in a sort of semi-twilight by the green
blinds, and there she found Angela on the sofa, with
Philip Massey on a chair beside her. Some low-spoken
words had been exchanged just before she entered, and
she felt her face flush.

Angela's reasons, for and against. 63

* Good-morning !* said Philip, rising. ' I came to see
if you were ready. Grace is waiting for the Berghaus
girls and Hermann.'

* Then suppose we go to Grace now, and it will save
so much time,* suggested Mabelle.

' We are all going to walk together to the omnibus at
the top of the street,* said Philip, who looked imperturb-
ably happy and satisfied, and who smiled whenever he
addressed Mabelle.

* I am going to your house,* she persisted obstinately ;
* I want to speak to Grace.*

She moved towards the door, taking no notice of
Angela's faint expostulation that it was too hot for such
sudden exertion, and upon her adoption of this decided
line of policy there remained virtually nothing for the
others to do but to carry it out.

They too followed, and in another moment the scene
was changed to Grace's parlour, with the blinds drawn
up, and the Berghaus contingent just arrived, together
with two friends of Hermann's, all talking loudly and
volubly, welcoming each other, and finally setting forth
in a body to go and find the omnibus which should take
them past the railway station they were going to.

CHAPTER Vn.

IN THE WOODS.

They all walked up the street in the blazing sun. There
were the Fairfax girls, Grace and Philip Massey, Thekla
and Hermann Berghaus, and their youngest sister Luise,

64 MADE OR MARRED.

and two nondescript young men, acquaintances of Her-
mann. These formed the party, and were taking advan-
tage of the fine day and Bank Holiday to go over to
Thellamere, a country place some fifteen miles out of
Irkford, and a noted resort of picnickers and holiday-
makers.

At the top of Lawrence Street stood an omnibus,
which would put the party down close to the station by
which they had to leave town in order to get to Thella-
mere. Thekla Berghaus and Grace Massey, whose
friendship seemed only to become more violent as it was
tried by time — they had now known each other for the
prolonged period of three months — lingeied a little, and
followed somewhat in the rear of the others, who seemed
almost to make one large group, except that Philip and
Angela were ever somewhat apart from the others.

*Have you decided when you can come to us, Thekla?'
asked her friend.

*I can come any time now,' answered Miss Berghaus,
whose fresh cheek was somewhat paler and thinner than
it had been that evening when she and Philip took for
their puzzle word, ' success.'

*Then it just depends upon Philip,' said Grace. *I really
will make him come to a decision. How he can bear to
stay here in the dust and heat, when he might be basking
on the cliffs behind our house at Foulhaven, I can't
imagine ! He told me he could have his holiday when
he pleased, almost'

She spoke resentfully.

'Well, at least he is making an effort to get out of
town to-day,' remarked Thekla.

' What a flat, mild, stupid speech for you to make !'

IN THE WOODS. 65

retorted Grace, almost savagely. * Do you think I don't
know,' she went on in a lower voice, * what it all means ?
Do you think I don't know that we should be at home
now, Philip and you and I, and as happy as kings and
queens in our dear old garden at Red Lees, if he were
not infatuated about that girl — ^utterly infatuated !- I hate
her, Thekla !'

* Hush r murmured Thekla, almost apprehensively.

* No, I won't hush. I do hate her — the horrid,
meddling, flirting interloper ! She has poisoned Philip's
mind, and soured his temper — he used never to have
any temper at all — nothing could put him out of humour
— but last night, Thekla,' sinking her voice to an excited
whisper, *we' had a quarrel — almost a quarrel — Philip
and I, all about that creature; we who had never
quarrelled in our lives before. If I had not given in, it
would have been a complete quarrel He called me
" mean." '

* Oh, no, no !' exclaimed Thekla.

* Not that very word, perhaps ; but he said my feelings
were small and envious, and unworthy of me — he could
never have believed — and all that. Oh, here we are at
the omnibus.'

They seated themselves in a corner of the convey-
ance, and Grace went on with her story, which appeared
to interest Thekla more intensely than, perhaps, a better
tale might have done.

* I thought my heart would break,' said Grace. * He
looked so cold and cross and stern. I never saw him
look at me in such a way before, and when I think of
that woman^ who has come between us '

She was almost in tears.

66 MADE OR MARRED.

* Don't cry, Grace, but tell me. You did not really
quarrel with him ?*

* No. I love him too much for that, I gave in, and
begged his pardon.'

* Oh, I'm glad of that,' said Thekla, with a long sigh
of relief

* And I even said I would be amiable to her to-day, so
if you find yourself deserted and behold me walking arm-
in-arm with her, and smiling sweetly all the time, you will
know the reason, and not be cross, will you ?*

* Cross with you — about him — that, I mean no,
Grace !'

* If it were not for her dear little sister, I should have
quarrelled with her long ago,' pursued Grace, * but she is
such a sweet, good little thing, and so patient ! It makes
me nearly cry sometimes to see how angelically she puts
up with the refined selfishness of her sister. Angela,
indeed ! I know another name that would suit her better !'

Thus engaged .in unburdening their minds, they arrived
at the point where they had to descend from the omnibus
and go to the station. Thekla and Grace came out last,
and Philip, standing at the door to hand them down,
whispered to his sister :

* You made me a promise, Grace, last night, and you
are not keeping it*

* I think you have not given me much chance,' she
replied in the same tone, and their eyes met.

Brother and sister were singularly alike in appearance,
manner, and gesture — alike even down to the veiled flash
of anger, or light of love in the depths of their dark eyes.
It was a look of reconciliation they exchanged just now,
a kiss of forgiveness.

IN THE WOODS. 67

* You shall have no reason to say that again, if you will
only please me, like the dear girl you are,* he answered,
in the same low tone ; and then, instead of joining
Angela again, he left Grace to go to her, while he attached
himself to Thekla Berghaus.

Still the arrangement did not seem exactly successful,
although Grace fulfilled her agreement punctiliously, in
the letter at least. She smiled sweetly upon Angela, who
smiled as sweetly in return, and Grace spoke words of
agreeable import for a time to her companion, but, even
before they had arrived at the station, they were no longer
alone, but were joined by Hermann Berghaus and one of
his friends, while the eyes of Grace flashed veiled lightning,
and she said in her heart :

* She is the most atrocious flirt I ever saw. If Philip
leaves her for an instant, she never rests until some
other man is dangling after her. It is shameful, and I
hate her.'

* Hate ' was a word all too common on Grace's vehe-
ment lips, but on this occasion the feeling in her heart
was one more nearly answering to the real thing than it
ever had been before.

The journey to Thellamere was not a successful one,
though the conversation did not flag, and the laughter
was frequent. Grace conscientiously tried to fulfil her
promise to her brother, but from some reason — ^whether
the fault lay with Miss Fairfax or the other girls — the
fact was quite obvious, that Angela was oftener surrounded
with men, or engaged in earnest conversation with a man
than with girls. Philip had left her side, hoping soon to
see her and Grace as deeply engrossed with one another
as Grace and Thekla were wont to be, instead of which,

5-2

68 MADE OR MARRED.

he was, in a short time, torn by jealousy in beholding
Angela apparently in the most engrossing and confidential
conversation with one of the stray young men whom
Hermann had added to the party, while Grace sat beside
her, bolt upright, with flushed face, compressed lips, and
sullen moody brows.

What a savage frown the girl had, thought Philip,
utterly unconscious that his own forehead was glooming
down in a still more portentous manner over his clouded
eyes.

They left the train at the little wayside station of
Thellamere, and all walked together for a little way,
through the quiet country village up the steep hill, to a
country road, from which they turned aside into the
beautiful woods, forming part of the estate of a certain
nobleman resident there, and which to-day, as on several
similar occasions, were thrown open to the public.

In these woods it was deliciously cool. [The long
branching alleys, the little sinuous walks, the solemn
darkness of the firs, the refreshing green of the bushes,
with the calm and hush and stillness of an August noon-
tide, gradually stilled the voices of the pleasure-seekers,
none of whom were quite devoid of some understanding
of nature, or some capacity for enjoying her many
moods.

They penetrated deeply into the wood, until they had
found what they considered a sufficiently secluded spot,
and then the girls began to spread the luncheon which
they had brought with them.

Still, there was a sort of constraint over the whole
party. Mabelle had seated herself beside Luise Berg-
haus under a spreading beech-tree, apart from the rest,

tN TttE Woobs. 69

but Luise was called by Thekla, in an upusually sharp
and acrid tone, to come and assist in the spreading forth
of the comestibles, and thus the young girl was left
alone, her deep, sad young eyes fixed, with their wistful
gaze, upon the dark belt of firs at the edge of the
wood.

Suddenly a shadow came between her and the trees,
and, looking up, she saw Philip Massey.

* How are you to-day — ^you look tired ?' said he, cast-
ing himself down beside her, and fixing his eyes upon
her face, over which ran a rapid, rosy flush.

Philip's own face was changed; it looked thin and
worn ; about the mouth there was a kind of nervous line,
and a restless, wistful gleam in the great dark eyes.
Those eyes were fixed upon Mabelle's face with so intent
a stare that at last she said, hastily :

* What's the matter? Why do you look at me so
strangely ?*

* I was looking to see if you were in the least like your
sister. Do you know, I cannot trace the faintest resem-
blance.'

* Cannot you ?' said Mabelle faintly, as her eyes sank
uneasily beneath his, and she felt her heart throb. Oh,
if there were but something she could say — some word
of warning she could give him ! Surely, surely it must
be right to do so. And yet to vilify one's own sister,
one's only friend and protector, and to no purpose.
Philip was in no mood to believe anything against Angela
— though an angel from heaven descended to reveal it
to him.

*No,' he repeated; *you are utterly different. One
would never suppose you were sisters.'

^o MADE OR MARRED.

* People say that I am like our mother, and Angela
like papa,' said Mabelle.

* Do they ? But she has been a mother to you, has
she not ?*

* Yes — that is, I have had no other mother.*

* Ah 1 That — I mean your sister's relationship to you
accounts for many things,' said Philip. *Do you like
coming into the woods ?' he added.

* Sometimes ; not taday.'
'No! Why?'

* We -don't seem united. It is not a pleasant party.
No one is enjoying it,' replied Mabelle vaguely, feeling
Philip's eyes haunting her; miserable, oppressed, help-
less.

* Do you think your sister would sing if you asked
her ?' said Philip. * I think it would be so delightful,
out here in the pinewood ; and her voice is so lovely. I
am sure she could.'

* I — don't — know,' said Mabelle, slowly.

* If you were to ask her,' he urged

* I — ^why should she sing for my asking ?'

* Because you can do anything with her. She says so.
She told me so. " I can refuse her nothing — my little
Mabelle." Those were her words.'

Mabelle's lips tightened; her face flushed violently;
tears of shame, anger, humiliation rushed to her eyes.

* Won't you ask her F' he pursued.

* After lunch,' said Mabelle, gently.

* Well — when you think best,' he replied reluctantly,
and he remained in his place beside Mabelle till the meal
was over.

It was not an inspiriting repast. Grace Massey drew

IN THE WOODS. 71

Luise Berghaus to her, and they sat together gossiping
about their different teachers and professors at school
and college. In vain Hermann tried to join in the con-
versation. He was sent away, rebuffed and disconsolate.
Thekla Berghaus, contrary to her usual frank, genial way
of doing her best to entertain the whole party, was flirt-
ing openly and exclusively with the most inane of her
brother's friends, talking wild and flippant nonsense, for
which she would probably blush when she recalled it to
her mind during the night-watches, and laughing now
and then at, not with, her companion. Philip and Ma-
belle were side by side under the ^beech-tree ; silent,
both ; he engrossed in observing Angela, she with a heart
as heavy as lead, and with tears flooding her eyes, so that
she scarcely dared^lift them. Angela was the only one
of the party who appeared to enjoy it thoroughly.

Hermann Berghaus, rebuffed by Grace, had sought
consolation with Miss Fairfax, and she was amusing her-
self, and very well content in the consciousness that she
absorbed the attention of two men of the party, while a
third one saw nothing of all that surrounded him, except
herself, and wished for nothing but a glance from her
eyes, or a word from her lips.

*Well — ^he shall have it — sometime,' she decided
within herself.

And thus lunch was consumed It was like ashes,
bitter to the taste of some of the party ; and thus the
afternoon hours dragged on. Mabelle kept her promise;
she asked Angela to sing. Angela proved gracious, and
complied with the request They all had tea at an old
black and white farmhouse in a field, and when dusk
was falling, and the stars coming out, and the last song

(2 MADE OR MARRED.

of the latest bird was hushed, they strolled through the
scented lanes, towards the village and the station again.

CHAPTER VIII.

* TRUST HER NOT; SHE'S FOOLING THEE.'

When the train left the Thellamere Station on its way to
Irkford, our picnic-party was scattered about in different
parts of it, for the platform was crowded, the train was
full, and people had to find seats where they could.
Nevertheless it was not from pure accident that Philip
and Angela found themselves alone in a first-class com-
partment An extra carriage had had to be put on for
the accommodation of the too numerous excursionists,
and while the others had all been running about, and
squeezing themselves into already overflowing carriages,
Philip, turning to Angela, said :

* Suppose you take my arm; there is such a crush.
And if we wait quietly we shall have a much better
chance than by rushing about as they are doing.'

* Oh, anything not to be crushed by all the people !'
said Miss Fairfax sweetly, and she had accepted his
proffered arm, and they had stood aside, waiting while
the additional carriage was put on, Philip conscious of a
wild wish that the train would quietly go on, and leave
them to find their way home together — anyhow.

He could think of nothing more delightful than to find
himself left alone with Angela, with no definite prospect
of being separated. But that was a chimerical idea not
likely to be realised, and accordingly it was only the next

'TRUST HER NOT; SHE'S FOOLING THEE.' 73

best contingency which arrived ; they went in the same
train with the rest of the party, but alone.

At first there was entire silence between them, as the
train went slowly, after the manner of excursion trains,
between the dim and dusky fields and dull white roads,
which seemed to circle dreamily by. That silence was
first broken by Angela, who said, pensively :

* What a heavenly day it has been !'

* Do you think so ? Are you not fatigued ? I thought
you looked tired.'

* I am never tired of Nature and the country. Give
me the sea or the trees, and I ask nothing but to look at
them — and be happy.'

* How dreadful a town life must seem to you !' said
Philip, with rather a sickly smile.

No lad's first love was ever more humble and desperate
than this of Philip Massey. The whole thing must in-
evitably have been ludicrous — his blind, wild, uncom-
promising worship, and her cool, egotistical, unlovely,
because sordid, coquetry — had it not been for the one
element, on his side, of passionate earnestness, of loyal
good faith, and pure-hearted, single-minded adoration.
This was what gave its tragic element to the affair.
Philip worshipped his goddess most reverently, thinking
her high above himself and every other creature ; being
perfectly willing to forsake father and mother, brother
and sister, and cleave iot ever to her only — while she !
Poor little Mabelle's bitter sighs were not without just
cause and foundation.

* A town life must always be a sacrifice, I suppose,
after our beautiful home at Nenside, but '

' But do you think it could ever be tolerable to you ?'

74 MADE OR MARRED.

* There might be conditions under which — oh, Mr.
Massey !'

A long and pensive glance was only half over when
Philip interrupted it by taking her hand.

* Miss Fairfax — ^Angela !' he began, and after a pause
he went on, as she had^intended he should, with the story
of his love, his adoration ; his utter unworthiness and
presumption, and all the rest of it ; but the speech ended,
as all such speeches do end, with a fervent prayer that
she would overlook the unworthiness and try to love him
ever so little — in ever so long a time, and thereby make
him happy from that moment for all time.

' I ! Oh, you astonish me !' said she, and did not
blush as her eyes met his while she spoke.

* Perhaps I startled you — spoke too soon — ^you were
unprepared,' he stammered.

[*The idea of anything he could say startling meP
thought Angela, with supreme disdain.]

* But, oh, if you could only say that I am not utterly
indifferent to you ^'

* I cannot deny it,' said she with a long look, and a
smile that faded almost before it began.

* And may I ^

* Stop ! I cannot tell you that I love you, but '

*I never expected, never thought, or hoped, such a
thing. But may I hope^ Angela, that sometime '

* Hush ! Do not be so excited, Philip. Yes, I cannot
tell you not to hope. I — I — will think of it.'

* You are an angel !' was all that Philip could say,
kissing her hand, with a fervent look of devotion that
had something of reverence in it — a look in which a
nobler woman might have nobly rejoiced, but which

^TRUST HER NOT; SH^S FOOLING thee' 75

caused Angela to think how very desperately he was in
love with her, as she answered it with a smile.

A smile was her only reply to almost every form of
address, question, avowal— every shape of praise, blame,
reproach. Unkind and envious fellow-women, like Grace
Massey and Thekla Berghaus, have been known to say
that this form of answer, constantly repeated, waxed
monotonous; but how can such a smile wax monotonous,
floating over a lovely face, and seeming to be caused by
unknown depths of feeling, faintly lighting a pair of
divine eyes.

The story goes that a certain * Mater Purissima,' one
of the most celebrated pictures of a celebrated old master,
had for model one of the most corrupt women of her
age. It is a story which, whether true or not, inevitably
sets one thinking when one hears it, and thinking sadly,
too, of the many counterparts of it which may be found
in these latter years of grace in the nineteenth century, in
which we have emancipated ourselves from so much
which we have discovered to be superstitious, and set up
instead each an idol fashioned by his own hands — our
mcUer purissima.

■ * I have not deserved such happiness,* said Philip, and
the answer was another smile.

Then it was over —

the glory and the dream.

The train stopped ; there was noise, bustle, shouting,
talking. They joined their friends, went out of the
station into the busy street and the lamplight Then
came that prosaic vehicle, the omnibus, in which Philip

76 MADE OR MARRED.

contrived to be seated next to Angela. Half-way home,
he heard her voice in a low tone :

* Philip ! Don't move. Look as if we were talking
about nothing in particular. I want to tell you some-
thing.'

* Yes ; I can hear. What is it ?'

* I don't want you to speak about what we have been
talking about to-night. You know there is nothing
settled, nothing decided. It would make me so— I don't
know what — I could not stand it, if it were looked upon
as Si fait accomplV

* I will do just as you like, and not mention it to any-
one, unless you wish it; but Grace— you would not mind
Grace knowing it ?'

* No, no. Indeed Grace must know it It cannot be
helped. But make her promise that it goes no further.
You can make her promise anything, you know.'

* I will. You may trust to me.'

#w% #w% ^^^ ^^^

* Oh, dear ! How tired I am, and how stupid it has
been !' ejaculated Angela, flinging herself on the couch.
* Turn up the gas, Mabelle, and let me see if my dress is
damaged. It really was much too good for such an ex-
pedition as this.'

Mabelle complied with the behest in silence. Angela
stood up again, and carefully examined her dress all
round.

* Not so bad as I feared. Luckily Philip and I had a
first-class compartment all to ourselves, and-^ — '

* Philip and you ? You speak very familiarly of him,
Angela.'

* Do I ? I must be careful, and I hope he will be

' TRUST HER NOT; SHE^S FOOUNG THEE.' 77

careful, too ; he is rather rash and blundering. Did I
not tell you he was going to propose to me ? I never
was deceived yet in a thing like that, and I was not to-
night He did propose ; and to hear him it might have
been a matter of life and death.'

* He proposed 1 And you, Angela, what did you say ?'

* I said I would think about it'

* Oh !* Mabelle's hands were clasped with a nervous
tightness together; her eyes were fixed apprehensively
on her sister. *You know, Angela, he is not like the
men we used to meet '

* I should think not, indeed ! The men we used to
meet were not quite so gauche and abrupt in their
manners as Philip Massey, and '

* But no one had a warmer heart ; there was not one
of all our friends who was as good as he is,' said Ma-
belle, desperately. * Do tell me the truth !' she added,
with almost a sob of suppressed emotion. * You don't
mean that you are only amusing yourself with him,
Angela ? You would not be so cruel, and so — so base !'

* Pshaw ! How excited you get ! You are almost as
bad as himself. I will tell you the simple truth, child. I
hate this life that we are leading as I never hated anything
before, and as I can never hate anything again ; and I
would do almost anything to get out of it — anything not
downright wicked, you know. As for warm hearts, and
that, they are often a great bore. Philip Massey is not
the man I would have chosen for my husband had I had
any choice given me, but he is desperately in love with
me, poor fellow !' (with a sweeter smile than ever), *and
I can make him do exactly as I please by judicious
management. I Yio.\^ promised nothing, remember that ;

78 MADE OR MARRED.

and I intend to promise nothing until I know what his
position is, and what his prospects are. Then I shall de-
cide ; and if what he offers me is much better than this,
I will take it, if not '

* If not, you will tell him candidly that you do not
care for him, and cannot marry him,* said her sister,
breathlessly. * Of course you will say that, dear Angela,
won't you ?*

* Oh yes — I suppose so. But I'm tired of considering
what I will do ; and, as for you, you are much too young
to meddle with such things, and had much better be
thinking about your lessons. Where are you going ? It
is not bedtime yet'

* I am tired ; good-night,' said Mabelle, as she escaped
from the room, leaving Angela to reflect upon the best
means of utilising her conquest; while she, Mabelle,
covering Jher face with the bedclothes, wept as if her
heart would break, and as if no length of time could ever
quench the source of her tears.

CHAPTER IX.

GRACE ON THE SITUATION,

It was a week later, and affairs were in much the same
position as on the day of the picnic. They had neither
advanced nor receded. Emotion had been keen, no
doubt, and its current strong, but it had pursued an even
way, as yet arrested neither by rocks nor rapids.

Philip had told Grace what had passed between him
and Angela, including the vow of secrecy.

GRACE ON THE SITUATION. 79

* Has she not given any final answer ?* asked his sister,
sharply.

* No j is it likely ?'

*The most likely thing in the world, I should have
supposed.'

*How can she know, or decide anything, upon so
short a notice ?'

* Anything ! She ought to be able to say whether she
loves you or not, and whether she intends to marry you
or not'

* You forget, Grace, that, until I told her, she had no
idea of anything of the kind. It took her by surprise.'

It was on the tip of Grace's tongue to say, * How can
you talk, or believe, such nonsense ?* but she restrained
her lips.

Philip went on to plead with his sister to be kind to
his sweetheart

* I don't understand you,' he said. * You seem jealous,
or as if you disliked her, or something ; it is so un-
like you j and I should have thought that a girl in her
helpless and friendless position would naturally appeal to
your kindest feelings, fatherless, motherless, and brother-
less as she is.'

* I should not think about her in any way if you had
not chosen to fall in love with her. When it comes to
your wanting to marry her, I naturally begin to criticise
her, and the more I see of her, the more I feel that she
is not half good enough for you, and does not appreciate
you.'

* That is nonsense — and worse than nonsense,' said he,
gravely, almost severely, * and I must beg you not to say
anything of the kind again.'

8o MADE OR MARRED.

So the discussion went on, Grace holding out at first,
and saying many bitter things, a line of argument which
she maintained so long as Philip continued cold and
severe ; but as soon as he tried the weapons of tender-
ness and persuasion, a kiss and a whisper of entreaty,
melting into tears, and abjectly promising to do anything
he liked rather than grieve him.

*Only, Philip,' she said, putting her arm round his
neck, and speaking in a whisper, ' I know some one else
worth ten thousand Miss Fairfaxes — so good, and with
such a true heart, and I had so hoped that she would be
the wife whom you would choose,'

* Don't, Grace ! You don't know what you are saying.
You will say something disloyal to some friend if you
don't take care,' he said hastily, but Grace saw a deep
flush cross his face, and wondered if he had guessed. If
he would only have seen in their proper light the different
hearts of Thekla Berghaus and Angela Fairfax, how happy
she would have been ! But brothers, she reflected, were
proverbially perverse in such matters.

Nevertheless, she braced herself to make the best of
it, and to do the will of this mistaken man, since she
loved him tenderly, and desired his happiness. She was
therefore portentously amiable to Angela; called upon
her, sat with her, invited her to spend the evening with
them, and always ended by finding that there was appa-
rently no single topic which she and Miss Fairfax could
discuss with mutual satisfaction ; so in despair she at last
turned to Mabelle, and petted and made much of her,
wondering what made her so thin and dejected. In pri-
vate, she had confided the awful secret to Thekla, from
whom, indeed, she could with difficulty have concealed

GRACE ON THE SITUATION. 8i

it, and Grace, in her chagrin, could hardly be expected
to deny herself the exquisite luxury of opening out in
private to her friend the thoughts which elsewhere she
was obliged to keep locked within her own breast.

* Mark my words,* she said, at what she and Thekla
called an * afternoon opportunity,' *it will end in disaster.
Philip is bewitched, Thekla— bewitched as Merlin was
with Vivien — only Vivien had brains and she has none.
You may see it by the very glance of his eyes, and hear
it in the rubbish he condescends to talk with her. Or
else he sits staring at her, and she looks at him now and
then, and smiles. How I detest that smile of hers !
Sweet it may be, but it is as utterly imbecile as a smile
can be. As if two human beings could go on living on
looks and smiles ! Do you know what they ought to be
talking about, if there was any seriousness or possibility
about the thing ? Why, about ways and means, and his
position, and their future prospects, and how she could
help him, and how they are to start in life. And instead
of that, when they do talk, it is idiotic stuff about music
and sentiment, and singing. Pshaw !*

She paced about Thekla's bedroom, in which these
disclosures took place, while Thekla herself sat, her lips
set, her fingers apparently engrossed with her embroidery.

* It haunts me, and makes me wretched !* went on
Grace. * Whichever way I look, I can see nothing but
misery. If she jilts him I believe he will break his
heart, or go mad, or something. He is such a fool —
such a dear old fool 1 And if she marries him '

* For Heaven's sake talk of something else ! I cannot
bear — I am wearied of it. What do I care ?' said Thekla,
sharply.

6

82 MADE OR MARRED.

And Grace, silenced in her tirade, and confirmed in
her suspicions, fell to weeping.

Despite her wretchedness she was able to face the pros-
pect of going with Philip to the ball which Mr. Starkic
was to give in honour of Mr. Grey's approaching marriage.
All the superior clerks of the establishment were invited,
ind many other guests as well, and each of the aforesaid
clerks was allowed to take two ladies. Philip was taking
Grace and Angela, though to that day the latter had never
said to him, * I love you, and I will be your wife when
we can reasonably think of marriage.' No such common-
place and prosaic words had fallen from her lovely
lips. Hints, vague half-promises, half-concessions, sooth-
ing words, and long, mysterious glances had alone been
vouchsafed, but they were enough to keep Philip fever-
ishly in love, and still wandering in his FooVs Paradise.

Some of Mr. Berghaus's family were also going, and it
had been arranged that they should all start at the same
time, and so arrive nearly together, at Mr. Starkie's place,
which was in an Irkford suburb, five miles away.

Angela's lips had been opened to utter a few words on
the subject of dress. Being in half-mourning she said,
she could not venture on anything but black and white,
and being so poor her dress must be simple, and must
be made at home.

Miss Fairfax made a great point of the * home-made '
incident. And so it was made at home, and chiefly by
the ingenious fingers of Mabelle. It was simple, no
doubt ; but there is costly simplicity as well as cheap
and tawdry splendour, and as Grace Massey observed,
^ Dozens of yards of black tulle, and unlimited water-
lilies and leaves in long sprays, of the very best make,

GRACE ON THE SITUATION. 83

cannot be got for absolutely nothings you know; nor
black satin fans with ivory sticks — but Philip gave her
that ; nor long Brussels lace mittens — but she said those
belonged to her grandmother, and I am sure, for any-
thing I care, they may have been worn by Noah's wife,
before the Flood'

The great day of the festivities at last dawned ; it is to
be hoped that poor Mr. Grey felt happier on the occa-
sion than did some of those who were bidden to the
festivities in honour of his marriage.

CHAPTER X.

FAREWELL.

* Liebchen, ade !
Scheiden ihut weh !*

* I SUPPOSE the governor won't be here to-day,' said one
of his fellow-clerks to Philip, on that eventful morning.
' He's off to Grey's wedding.'

* I suppose so. Shall you be there to-night T

* Yes ; I'm going with my sister, and my brother, and
the girl I'm engaged to.'

' Are you engaged ? I didn't know. Who is the lady.'*'

* Miss Wainwright — Lucy Wainwright,' said Philip's
fellow-clerk, with a proud and happy smile.

* Oh, I once met her somewhere. She is a charming
girl. I congratulate you.'

* Thanks ! Who are you bringing ?'

* My sister, and the lady — a friend of my sister's — Miss
Fairfax.*

6—2

84 MADE OR MARRED.

* Perhaps I may congratulate you too, eh ?* suggested
his friend, looking at him with a smile.

* No,' was all Philip said ; but he had cause to remem-
ber the conversation.

The day wore on, under the auspices of Mr. Day, the
head clerk, and this unfortunate gentleman had ample
cause to wish the hours of work might be curtailed. It
had transpired that he also was to grace the ball, and
many were the benevolent inquiries as to what he in-
tended to do, and whom he thought of bringing with
him. Mrs. Day — so much was elicited from him, was
to accompany him, and, this fact once known, nothing
short of a full description of Mrs. Day's proposed cos-
tume would satisfy the insubordinate youths supposed to
be under Mr. Day's control. Truth compels the bio-
grapher of Philip Massey at this period of his life, to
admit that he took a foremost part in persecuting the
unfortunate Mr. Day, presuming, it is to be feared, upon
that excellent person's known partiality to him. He
had just extracted from the head clerk the admission
that his consort's headdress would be glorious with a
white marabout feather, with gold tips, when an irreverent
spirit suddenly called out :

* I say, here's the governor's carriage. He's coming,
after all.'

' Gentlemen, I entreat you !' cried poor Mr. Day.

* What a lark, if the old boy has forgotten to take off
his wedding favour — Day, we'll make him lend it to you,
if he has. He likes conferring favours on you, you
know.'

Groans saluted this frightful attempt at a joke, which
groans were quickly hushed into a discreet silence as

FAREWELL. 85

Mr. Starkie's foot was heard, then his voice in Mr. Day's
office, calling to him.

The head clerk bustled away, and some subdued
laughter and joking went on at the expense of Mrs.
Day*s marabout feather. Philip Massey, who felt him-
self in an oddly joyous and excited mood, had just an-
nounced that he would waltz with Mrs. Day ere cock-
crow of the following day, or perish in the effort He
was laughing at the prospect, and looking up, a slight
flush upon his handsome, resolute face, and a gleam in
his dark eyes, when the door of the office was opened,
and the page-boy who waited upon Mr. Starkie in-
quired :

* Is Mr. Massey here ?'

* He is,' replied Philip.

* Mr. Starkie wants to speak to you at once, please.'
Philip rose, a little surprised at the unusual summons,

and in a few moments found himself standing in Mr.
Starkie's private room, alone with that gentleman.

* You sent for me, sir ?*

* Ah, Massey — yes, I want you.'

In his hand he held a telegram, as once before when
he had wanted Philip he had held a letter. There were
signs of grave disturbance on his face. Philip stood
waiting in silence while Mr. Starkie read the telegram
again, and then, turning to him, said :

* By well — ^you remember making inquiries for me about
By well ?'

* Perfectly well, sir.'

' Bywell has turned out much worse than I expected.
He has made off with a lot of our money, and left the
bridge, nearly finished, and all his workpeople, to any

86 MADE OR MARRED.

fate that may overtake them — in fact, there's the devil to
pay, and that's all about it.*

* Yes, sir.'

. * Is that all you have to say about it ?'

• ' I don't know of anything else, at the moment.'

* Ha, ha ! Well, what you have to do is to set off at
once, in Bywell's place, without losing an hour. From

Y you will report to me. If you hear, or find out

anything giving the least clue to his whereabouts, wire.
The rest I shall put into the hands of the police, but
the main thing is to send a substitute for him. Do you
understand ?'

* That I am to set off at once for — ; ' said Philip,

deliberately.

* Just so.'

*And remain until your contract is performed— and
then come home ?'

* Exactly.'

* About how long shall I be out ?'

* Perhaps six months, perhaps eight. It might be a
year.'

* It might be a year,' repeated Philip, passing his hand
over his brow.

* It might. I don't say it will Well — you don't wish
to shirk it, do you ?'

* Far from it. I am ready to go immediately, but —
excuse my putting such a question, sir. It is not from
greediness, or graspingness, I assure you, but because it
is a matter of something like life and death to me. If
I succeed to your satisfaction, and return safe and sound,
will my position — shall I '

'Will your position be improved? It all depends

FAREWELL. ^7

upon how you conduct yourself. If very well, it will be
improved very considerably. I cannot say more.*

* Thank you, sir. I fdt sure it was so. I only wished
to hear it from yourself. And now, I am ready any
moment'

So he was, perfectly ready. There are few pleasanter
things than to see a man, young, strong, honest, and
honourable, ready to do what he is told, intelligently,
not servilely, about to enter upon an expedition of much
responsibility, and not without considerable risk, at a
moment's notice ; not dismayed, but not over-confident ;
self-possessed, but modest, and not under the impression
that he was going to do something surpassing everything
that anyone else had ever done before.

A conversation took place between Philip and his chief
— not long, but concentrated— in which Mr. Starkie ex-
plained his position, and Philip took it in, receiving also
instructions and credentials. There was an express from
Irkford to London at eight o'clock. It was then nearly
five. He had three hours in which to purchase what
was absolutely necessary for his sudden expedition, go
home, take leave of his sister, *and your friends,' as
Mr. Starkie remarked, in a general way — write to absent
or distant friends, pack up his belongings, and be at the
station in time for the London express.

He left the room, after shaking hands with Mr. Starkie,
with the brief words,

* You may depend on me, sir, to do the best I have it
in me to do for you.'

* That is enough,' was the reply, and Philip found him-
self again in the outer office, which he had left scarce a
quarter of an hour before, at the page's summons. The

88 MADE OR MARRED.

rest of them were still seated there, and one or two looked
up as Philip came in.

*Well, Massey, what did he want? Anything about
to-night ? Did he ask you to bring some comic songs ?'

A stifled burst of laughter greeted this suggestion.
Comic songs were not Mr. Massey's strong point He
answered nothing to their suggestions, but said :

* What bosh ! Good-bye, all of you ! I'm off to make
acquaintance with the heathen Chinee.*

' What !' came in large capitals from all parts of the
room ; but Philip had no time to explain. He shook
hands with a few friends, and hurried away with a general
good-bye to the others.

A hasty visit to a large outfitting shop, where he ex-
plained his needs, and received a promise that what he
wanted should be packed and sent to meet his train to
London, and then, in a dream, a strange, unnatural trance,
he got into a hansom and was driven to Lawrence Street.

It was still day, still broad, hot sunlight. It seemed to
him as if ages had passed since Mr. Starkie had sum-
moned him to his room. On arriving at his house he
went into the parlour, and found Grace in a state of ex-
treme deshdbillt^ seated on a sofa in a red Watteau dress-
ing-gown, while finery was strewed in all directions around
her, and a very large work-basket stood before her on the
table. Yards and yards of amber ribbon and knots of
black velvet were spread around in a bewildering con-
fusion, and Miss Massey was absorbed in preparations
for the evening.

* Philip !' she ejaculated, as he came in, * you here at
this hour ! What has happened ? Is the ball given up?'

She flung her work down, and stood up.

FAREWELL. 89

' Something has happened, I suppose,' he said gravely,
*and the ball is certainly given up — at least for me.
They are sending me out to China, to look after some
business there/

' To China to-night 1' echoed Grace, and stood silent
for a moment, looking at him. Her first impulse, why,
she knew not, was to burst into tears ; but that she felt
would be folly. In Philip's face, despite its gravity, she
thought she read elation. Like a good sister, putting all
private feelings and sensations aside, she said :

* If it is good for you, dear Philip, I congratulate you.
But are you off this minute ? You will have a meal, and
let me pack up your things for you. At what time do
you go ?*

* To London, by the eight o'clock express.'

* Oh, there is an hour or two yet. I will look after
your things. I'll clear all this rubbish away and put on
my dress, because of course there will be no ball for us
to-night, now.'

* I am very sorry to deprive you of your pleasure,' he
began.

' Nonsense ! As if it would be any pleasure to me
with you just starting on such an expedition.'

* I must go and see Angela,' said Philip, absently. ' I
shall not be long, Grace.

* Angela ! Oh yes, I suppose you must,' she replied,
a cold look coming across her face, a spasm across her
heart, as she realised how much he was thinking of
Angela. How small his sister's place had become in his
heart!

Philip, without another word, went away, and rang the
bell of the next house.

90 MADE OR MARRED.

Miss Fairfax was reading. Mabelle was sewing. * My
dear little milliner,' as her sister called her with affection-
ate facetiousness. They, too, both started, and exclaimed
as Philip came in.

* What is happening ?' burst from Angela's lips in a
tone of unusual animation.

* May I speak with you alone a few minutes ?' he asked,
gently and gravely. * I have something important to tell
you.*

Mabelle gathered up her work and went upstairs.
Philip and Angela were left alone.

* Don't keep me in suspense !' she said, with a melan-
choly smile. * Have you made a fortune, Philip, or lost
all that you have, that you look so dreadfully solemn ?'

* Neither one nor the other, dear,' he said, seating him-
self on the couch beside her and taking her hand ; * but
it has been put within my power greatly to improve my
fortunes.*

* Has it ? How !' exclaimed Angela, with genuine interest.
He told her briefly what had happened.

' I said, to improve my fortunes,' he added ; * but, An-
gela, if you elect to remain true to me, and will wait, and
will let me say our fortunes, why, when I come home again
— and what could hinder me if I knew you were waiting
for me ? — I should be able to say to you, " Will you be
my wife, at once — any time— and " '

* Dear Philip, to hesitate at such a moment would not be
womanly, but prudish and unkind I say yes, I will wait
for you.'

* Oh, God bless you !' cried he, with almost a sob, as he
caught her in his arms for the first time, and could only
hold her to his heart and remain silent.

FAREWELL. 91

Angela behaved very properly and very prettily; nothing
could have surpassed the sweetness of her demeanour.
She rested her head on his shoulder, And she, too, said
nothing, no doubt feeling it unnecessary to add to her
lover's excitement by any high-flown language or pas-
sionate assurances. She was thinking — who shall say
what she was thinking ? One thing only is certain, that
she rejoiced unfeignedly in Philip's improved prospects,
and wondered very much by how much they were im-
proved.

Yet, when Philip moved, and she felt that the time was
come to look affectionately at him, there was that in the
eyes which met hers that sent a strange little thrill through
even her veins — a passion, a depth, looking from their
darkness — a * for life or death, for weal or woe ' expres-
sion which even she could not see quite unmoved.

' And you will write, and let me write to you, dearest ?'
he said, at last

* Yes, Philip ; how often can one write ?'

*As often as one will; the oftener the better. If you
knew how happy every one of your letters will make me !'

She smiled, and there was another pause, till Philip
said:

* Ah, by-the-bye, I am very sorry about the ball to-night
— that you should miss it ; but *

*Miss it!' said she, looking up. *\Vhy? No one
knows of our engagement, and — Philip — no one must
know, -except those who know already.'

' What !' he faltered

* The anxiety of a public engagement with you away,
in this barbarous place, would wear me out, would almost
kill me ! Indeed, Philip, it must not be made knowa'

92 MADE OR MARRED.

* As you will, my darling. I would not cause you a
moment's anxiety for the world.'

* You will cause me plenty while you are out in China
— awful place ! But don't you see that if I don't go to
the ball — ^just because you have left — what will people
think ? I shall go with a heavy heart I shall be thinking
of you, and ready to cry all the time ; but, Philip, I must
go, that is certain.'

' But Grace is not going. Who are you to go with ?'

* Grace will go if you choose to make her do so,' said
his lady-love, looking at him with something like a flash in
her languorous eyes. * And as for a chaperon, I will see
to that. Mrs. Berghaus will chaperon us.'

The saying is indeed a true one which asserts that the
strength of some characters only displays itself in great
emergencies. Nothing short of an immense occasion
like this could thus have called forth the strength of An-
gela Fairfax's character.

Philip hardly knew what he felt as he heard her thus
rapidly disposing of all his objections, and making apparent
the absolute necessity of attending the ball

A few more sentences passed, and then he agreed to use
his influence with Grace.

* But my time is short,' he said at last. ' I must leave
you. Where is Mabelle ? I must say good-bye to her.'

Angela called her, and she came down.

* Mabelle, Philip is going to China, and he wants to
say good-bye to you.'

* To China !' echoed Mabelle, intelligently.

' Yes. He is coming back quite rich, and then '

She smiled with expressive sweetness.

* And then, Mabelle, I hope we shall be brother and

FAREWELL. 93

sister. We have always been good friends, have we
not?'

* Always,' said Mabelle, with a wintry little smile, as
she placed her hand in his.

* Then good-bye, dear. I know that when I leave you
with one another I leave both in good hands. I may
take a kiss, Mabelle, for who knows when or how we
shall meet again ?'

With a smile, he stooped and touched her cheek —
half amused to see the frightened eyes that met his —
with his lips, and Mabelle said ' Good-bye, Philip,' but
seemed to have no voice wherewith to wish him a pros-
perous voyage, and then — somehow he found himself
outside the house.

^Mm ^Mfi ^^^ ^$^ ^^

^^ ^^ ^^ ^T* ^^

* Go to the ball I Never /' cried Grace, indignantly,
when he represented the case to her. * I should die of
blushes if I got there. The heartlessness of it ! Oh,
shameful !'

*But if I ask you, as a last favour — before I go,
Gracey — as a last, and the greatest favour I ever did
ask ?'

' Philip, you are a tyrant, and you never used to be
one !' she said, passionately. * I cannot go ; you must
not ask it.'

But he did ask it, and she, in the end, granted it, as
he knew she would. With a face of gloom and a heart
like lead, she went to get dressed. At half-past seven
Philip drove away, and on his way to London, while
the August sunset was flooding all the ripening fields
with golden light, his thoughts were all at Mr. Starkie's
house, and the ballroom there, and how Angela's heart

94 MADE OR MARRED.

was heavy, and how Grace was thinking of him. Surely,
since five o'clock, he must have lived a hundred years at
least.

CHAPTER XL

GOING AND RETURNING.

Angela had said, in reference to the ball, * I will find
a chaperon ;' and she had easily succeeded in doing so.
A note, written in haste, to Mrs. Berghaus, and sent by
the servant of the lodging-house, despite much grumbling
on the part of both her mistress and of the girl herrelf,
produced a good-natured reply from the lady, to the
effect that she and her party intended to be at Mr.
Starkie's house at such and such an hour, and if Miss
Massey and Miss Fairfax would be there about the same
time, and would wait in the dressing-room, she would
chaperon them with pleasure.

Angela was a Fairfax, and descended on her mother's
side from an aristocratic house, which had never paid
the least attention to the renegade daughter who had
married a country rector ; still, Angela had their blood
in her veins, and derived from them a spirit which, she
was wont to say, was all too fiery and impetuous. Yet
all the spirit of the Fairfaxes and of that other noble
house combined could not give her any pleasure in the
contemplation of that drive of an hour and a half with
Grace Massey, angry, injured, and unwilling, to the scene
of the festivities. Grace was ready at the appointed hour,
looking very handsome, despite her distress, in her atnber

GOING AND RETURNING. 95

silk and gauze, with the black velvet knots; but her
eyes were red with weeping, and swollen with the tears
which had not fallen, and her manner was dull and cold
in the extreme.

Angela was so closely shrouded in a long white cloak
that it was impossible to guess at the appearance likely
to be made by herself or her dress ; all that Grace could
see was a large, star-like white flower, reposing somewhere
in the mazes of wavy black hair which covered her head,
which made her look like some naiad or nymph, realised
in flesh and blood — and artificial flowers.

* What a trial this is, dear !' sighed Angela.

* What ?' inquired Grace.

* Philip's going away. It is most distressing. Nothing
but a sense of duty — the very strongest sense of duty,
would have induced me to go to this miserable ball. I
am sure I shall not dance a bit,* and she sighed heavily.

Grace struggled hard not to say some sharp, bitter
thing, as she was constantly tempted to do when with
Angela. The remembrance of that dear face which she
had kissed in farewell not an hour ago, and that alone,
held in her desire to be sarcastic, even sardonic, in her
replies, and she said :

* Yes ; I don't expect any pleasure from it, I must say,
and in my judgment it would have been better not to go.
But I could not refuse Philip's last request'

* I wish it had been in my power to stay away !' sighed
Angela ; * but it would have looked so very marked, you
know.'

* I thought 'you and my brother were now definitely
engaged. He told me so,' said Grace.

* We are, but not publicly. It would have been more

96 MADE OR MARRED.

than I could bear, to be openly engaged to him, and he
gone away, for no one knows how long !*

Grace's rage could no longer be entirely repressed.

* You must have a very sensitive nature,' said she, in
honeyed accents.

* Oh, very f assented Angela.

* But to my mind,' went on the downright Grace, * if I
loved a man enough to marry him, there is nothing that
I should like better than to have it known that I was en-
gaged to him. I should be proud of it, and I should
glory in it'

* Oh, my dear Grace, how shocking ! You are so young,
dear, you really don't know what you are saying.'

Grace laughed shortly and bitterly, and remarked :

* Do you mean that I have not had as much experience
as you on the subject ? I have never had any, allow me
to tell you, except that I agreed to marry one of Philip's
schoolfellows when he was ten and I was nine. But I
see we shall never agree upon the subject, so we had
better let it drop.'

Nothing loth, Angela complied with the suggestion,
and the rest of the journey was pursued in unbroken
silence.

They had scarcely entered the dressing-room at Mr.
Starkie's before the Berghauses also arrived ; Thekla and
her mother, the former looking rather pale, but with a
certain deeper light than usual in her blue eyes. Grace
flew to her, and began to explain the case, in a series
of low, but energetic whispers ; while Angela, daintily
arranging her very elegant and very artistic dress, dis-
coursed aside to Mrs. Berghaus in a discreet under-
tone.

GOING AND RETURNING. 97

* Mr. Philip Massey has been suddenly called away ;
he has gone to China, I believe ; so he could not bring
us, and of course Grace was so busy seeing him off and
talking to him that I offered to write to you in her
place.'

* Ah, yes !' said the unsuspecting Mrs. Berghaus,
arranging her cap before the glass. * I only wonder that
Grace would come without him ; she is so very devoted
to him.'

* He made a point of her doing so, and she did not
like to refuse him. It is very good of you to chaperon
so many girls. Four ladies, and only Mr. Hermann
Berghaus to escort us.'

* And Mr. Fordyce ; he came with us,' said Mrs. Berg-
haus, sticking a pin into her cap, and contentedly survey-
ing the effect. * So we have two gentlemen.'

*Mr. Fordyce! Indeed!' said Angela, in some sur-
prise, as she and the others followed Mrs. Berghaus
downstairs.

In the hall they found Hermann and Mr. Fordyce, the
latter looking stiff, and with a heightened colour in his
cheeks.

* What a funny little man he is !' murmured Grace to
Thekla.

* Isn't he ? I think he is smitten with you, Grace. He
had not intended coming, but when mamma casually
mentioned that you and Philip and Angela Fairfax were
coming, he immediately testified the greatest desire to
join us. We had a good laugh about it.'

In the meantime Mr. Fordyce, looking extremely pink,
had offered his arm to Miss Fairfax, and she, with her
sweetest smile, had accepted it, leaving Hermann to

7

98 MADE OR MARRED.

escort his mother, and Grace and Thekla to come after
them alone.

* Smitten with me^ Thekla !* whispered Grace, with a
short laugh, as they entered the ballroom.

Grace did not have a pleasant evening. She was
angry, vexed, and jealous for her brother, and, refusing
almost every dance except one or two with Hermann
Berghaus, remained a voluntary wallflower, and looked
with jaundiced eyes on the proceedings of Philip's
Jiancie.

Whatever the effort might cost the bleeding heart of
Miss Fairfax, it is very certain that she made a gallant
attempt to appear to enjoy the ball, and it was, like most
praiseworthy attempts, rewarded with a fair modicum of
success. While Grace sat glooming at one side, while
Thekla Berghaus danced — for what could Philip Massey's
departure to China, or anywhere else, be to her ? — but
danced mechanically, and had nothing but sharp things
to say to her partners ! Angela also danced every dance,
and fascinated all who spoke to her by her pensive smile
and engaging manners and beaux yeux,

Mr. Fordyce, in particular, devoted himself to her, and
Angela was very kind to him, and helped out his awkward
attempts at gallantry and compliments, with the tact and
delicacy which only women ever fully acquire. What
she thought, felt, or hoped on this occasion it is beyond
the power of her biographer to say. All the latter can
do is to report what the young lady did, said, and looked
like. During the ball she danced much, said very little,
and looked very beautiful. When the ball was over, it
was on the arm of Mr. Fordyce that she supported her-
self as she and Grace went to their carriage, Grace going

GOING AND RETURNING. 99

before with Hermann Berghaus ; and as the two young
ladies drove home not a syllable was exchanged between
them#

It appeared that some understanding had been^ arrived
at by Grace and Thekla; for, despite fatigue and late
hours, they met the following morning, and journeyed
together to Foulhaven, the seaside town in Yorkshire in
the neighbourhood of which was Grace's house, there to
stay for the remainder of the college vacation.

CHAPTER Xn.

mabelle's translation.

The heat of August faded into the milder warmth of
September, and the vacations were over ; work and the
autumn sessions at school and college began again.
Grace Massey and Thekla Berghaus returned from Foul-
haven, the one to her home, the other to her lodgings and
her studies, faster friends than ever ; while Mabelle and
her sister had to begin their work again, the one her
lessons, the other her teaching. The only difference
seemed to be that Philip was away, and that his letters
came like angels* visits, few and far between ; often de-
layed, very irregular, owing to the outlandishness of the
place to which he had gone, and the precariousness of
his means of communication with the outside world It
was naturally to Angela that he wrote most often and
most freely, and Angela had a way of receiving these
epistles with a calm pensive indifference, and of smiling

7—2

100 MADE OR MARRED.

•

gently at their glowing language, and perhaps not men-
tioning that she had heard from him, but letting the
fact come out casually in the course of conversation,
which habit drove Grace Massey, to use her own ex-
pression, * nearly wild.' In vain Thekla tried to pour
balm on the wounded spirit, by suggesting that Angela
could not know by instinct how intensely dear Philip was
to his sister, nor how the latter felt the separation, and
longed for news of him — that such knowledge must come
with time, and no doubt would so come.

* Never, I tell you !* was the uncompromising reply.
* She does know how I love him ; and she know show she
hates me, and I feel that every time she torments me
by withholding news of Philip, or doling it out as if she
grudged it, or cared nothing about it, she knows she is
tormenting me, and delights in it.*

* I don't think you have any right to say such things,'
replied Thekla, steadily : * and at least it is quite evident
that she considers herself engaged to your brother, for
she answers his letters unfailingly ; it must be so, or you
would hear of it from him.'

* Do you suppose she would ever let him go, unless a
richer man came forward? Let that happen, and we
shall see !' said Grace, bitterly.

* Fie, Grace ! I did not think you had it in you to
imagine such wickedness, much less openly to speak it.'

' " Evil communications corrupt good manners." I tell
you I am right,' said Grace, doggedly. * All I can say is,
I wish it were over, in one way or another, and that Philip
belonged to me once again, or to some woman worthy of
him.'

Thekla made no answer to this, but tranquilly pursued

MA^ELL^S TRANSLATION. ioi

her work, and Grace's heart sank, for she had lately begun
to notice certain signs and tokens about Thekla, and to
say to herself, *0f course she cannot wait for ever, and it
— but nothing shall ever make me quarrel with her, and
it is that woman's fault, not hers.'

Thus the weeks flew on, and Grace, despite the vivid
hopes and fears of her private life, continued a diligent
student at the college courses. Occasionally she and
Mabelle Fairfax would take their way together, to or
from school and college, when the hours of their classes
happened to coincide. Grace could not resist Mabelle,
despite her active dislike to the girl's sister, and all her
ways and works ; and Mabelle appeared to derive a plea-
sure, intense, though almost timid, from the society of
Grace.

* She is a wonderful child,' Grace said to Thekla one
day. * I am certain she is really clever. She seems to
have read almost everything ; she says, when her father
was alive she had nothing to do but read to herself and
him. I fancy she was kept in the background, and so
had time to improve her mind, and^ sense enough to do
it. But she is awfully old for her age ; she is only just
sixteen, you know.'

Indeed Mabelle was in many respects very old for her
age, while ^in others she was equally young. A shadow
had undoubtedly brooded over almost the whole of her
young life ; intercourse with none but persons older than
herself had forced some of her powers to an early ma-
turity, while a strong, sweet, and unselfish nature had
quietly received and accepted the burden of poverty and
reversed circumstances, which to Angela had appeared so
great a calamity, such an unheard-of woe, that almost any

td2 mad£ or marred.

means of escape from it presented itself to her mind as
legitimate. From the first it had been Mabelle who had
acted and done^ who had devised ways and means, who had
faced the world ; it had been Angela who had snatched at
the gifts sent by the gods, while grumbling that they were
not better.

Since Philip's departure, Mabelle's spirits appeared to
have revived somewhat. It would have been impossible
to say what the child had in her heart — what vague re-
joicing that Philip was out of harm's way, or what misty
hopes that in a year's absence, amidst new and exciting
scenes, he might perhaps unlearn something of the passion
that had possessed him when he departed.

When the time for lessons began again, 'Angela, like
other people, was forced towork,andMabelle'ssad little face
even began to wear a smile now and then. Like all healthy
natures, she turned gladly to work as a tonic and a bracing
influence, and like many inexperienced natures, she ima-
gined that what to her was so good and strengthening
must necessarily work wonders in everyone else. Mabelle
saw the relationship between Philip and her sister with her
own eyes, not with Angela's, and to those eyes it seemed
a good and a beautiful thing that a man should go out
into the world and work, and that the woman he left at
home behind him should not be ashamed to work too,
when the end in view was mutual union and happiness.
So she looked at the matter, and imagined that other eyes
would see it in the same light.

She had been thinking the question over one afternoon,
late in October, as she sat alone, preparing her tasks for
the following day. It was one of the afternoons on which
Angela's time was entirely taken up with several music

MABELLF's translation. 103

lessons, and she would not be at home until nearly five.
It was approaching that hour, and the room was growing
dark, when Mabelle, unwilling to draw down the blinds
and expel the last gleam of daylight, took her Schiller to
the window, to catch the last pale beam of even, while she
did her meed of translation for class.

It was a passage from the Jungfrau von Orleans that
she had just translated, and turning from that monoton-
ous, if severely beautiful, verse, she opened the page at
some shorter poems. The leaves fell apart naturally at
her favourite * Ode to Joy,' and she read the last verses
slowly, pondering over the end one of all, and thinking,

*That is true poetry, and what a splendid man he
would be who answered to the description.*

With this she rested her chin on her hand, and looked
steadily out of the window. She saw two persons
coming up the street, in earnest conversation. Mabelle's
eye, wavered, her cheek paled, but she was not near-
sighted, and she was in her sane mind — in possession of
all her faculties. She knew it was no delusion. That
was Angela, slowly advancing, and that man, who carried
her roll of music and looked earnestly into her face was
Mr. Fordyce. Certainly, there was no possibility of a
mistake in the matter. They advanced slowly, paused
at the gate to exchange some parting words, then there
was a shake of the hand, a look from the gentleman,
accompanied by a bow in which there was more of good
intentions than of elegant performance ; an appealing
glance from the lady.

Mr. Fordyce walked briskly away down the street, and
Angela rang the front-door bell.

*Why, child, you are almost in the dark; I can't see

I04 MADE OR MARRED.

my way,' she said, as she came in. * Do let us have the
gas lighted, and some tea — I am dying for a cup of
tea.'

' Angela, was that Mr. Fordyce who came with you to
the gate?'

* Mr. Fordyce ?* repeated Angela, in a changed voice,
which strove to break into an indifferent laugh ; * yes,
ma belle^ it was. Dear old thing he is ! What then ?'

* Had he walked far with you ?'

* From Carlton Road, just above the Berghauses.' It
was there I met him.'

* And he turned back with you ?'

*He did. Really, I have had enough of this catechism.
You are not a cheerful sister. Here am I, half-dead with
cold and fatigue, and you begin to cross-question me as
if I were a witness suspected of dishonesty. You do
forget yourself strangely, sometimes.'

She rang the bell sharply and desired the servant to
bring some tea. Then she lighted the gas with her own
hands, and when Mabelle looked at her, she saw a flush
on her cheeks and a light, as of triumph, in her eyes.

The words of the verses she had been reading seemed
to ring in Mabelle's ears. Was her sister without it —
that moral quality which holds compacts sacred —

* Vows once made, kept evermore ;
Tnjth maintained *twixt friend and foe ?'

Or was she one of those women who will pursue any
bypath through life which promises most ease to the feet,
and the pleasantest banks to rest upon, even though to
do it she must go for ever with *a lie in her right hand ?'
The tension of doubt and distress became almost un-

MA BELLES TRANSLATION. .105

bearable to the young girl. The cloud which for a few
weeks had been lifted, settled more heavily than ever
over her head Perhaps Angela might not suffer, but
she did. Whenever she saw Grace, she felt an impulse
to cover her face with her hands ; she wished she could
sink into the earth and be for ever lost to sight. When
she saw the letters in the thin foreign envelopes, with the
outlandish stamps, and the round, black address to Miss
Fairfax, and saw those others with the small, clear, deli-
cate tracery, addressed to * Philip Massey, Esq., H.B.M.

Consulate, Y ^ China,' Mabelle felt as if the world

were upside down, were one vast, black, hideous lie, and
she a part of it.

For the first meeting between Mr. Fordyce and Angela,
which had shocked her and sent a chill foreboding to her
heart, was not the last ; but, warned by the result of it,
Angela had never again allowed Mabelle a chance of ex-
postulating with her. Her affairs were cleverly managed.
The girl could now only guess, surmise, suspect; wear
out her heart with conjectures which she could not sub-
stantiate, and rack her brains with consideration of the
problem whether she must leave Philip to his fate or
betray what she thought of her sister, and possibly be
found wrong after all.

CHAPTER Xni.

COMING.

With Easter, which the following year fell late, came a
letter from Philip to Angela, breathing hope, high and

io6 MADE OR MARRED.

strong. His work was nearly over ; in a month or six
weeks at the latest he hoped to be well on his homeward
way.

'Philip coming home!' Just fancy!' cried Miss
Fairfax, with unusual animation.

* Philip coming home ? Oh I when ?' cried Mabelle,
a flush crossing her pale face.

' Soon, he says. In six weeks,' replied Angela, with
an uneasy laugh.

* Thank heaven ! Then all will be well, and you will
have no more of this suspense which is so. trying and so
hard to bear,' said Mabelle, with emotion, as she kissed
her.

* Trying ! It is wearing beyond everything. It has
reduced me to a mere skeleton,' said Angela, whose face
was certainly a little wasted, but lovelier than ever, and
whose dark eyes looked larger, more pensive, more
mournful, if possible, than of old.

In very truth Angela was suffering. She was playing
for what seemed to her high stakes — money, ease, posi-
tion; immunity from * drudgery' and poverty; exemp-
tion from the necessity of wearing cheap gloves, and
common, ill-made gowns ; from haying to ride in an
omnibus, or go on foot ; from having to see women who
were often ugly, old, or vulgar, or all three, ride by in their
carriages, while her lovely self carried her own parcels
on the footpath. She was playing her game desperately,
and with an energy which she could have given to no
other object in the heavens above or the earth beneath ;
and now this letter told her that she was playing it
against time, and with terrible odds against her — the
odds that Philip would return and openly claim her be-

COMING. 107

fore the other man made the offer for which she was
waiting.

When Philip had gone away, with all his hard fight
before him, and his fortune to make, the prospect of
what he offered her on his return had seemed Elysium in
comparison with her actual lot ; but even yet Philip's
fortunes were nearly all to make, and a hundred things
might happen to mar their brightness ; whereas Mr.
Fordyce, though elderly, slow, and awkward, held in his
hands all the things she coveted, and with a word could
make them hers. How was she to bring the affair to a
* happy* termination; how continue to hoodwink Ma-
belle, deceive Philip, smile at Grace, keep Mr. Fordyce
still in love, and still in good humour ? She was not
wrong when she said that the process was 'wearing.'

Grace was overjoyed in the prospect of Philip's speedy
return, but Mabelle's eager expectancy was tinged with a
heavy despondency — the prevision of a coming catas-
trophe, which, strive as she would, she could not
banish.

* He will be here directly,' said hope, * and all will be
well.'

* He cannot come for weeks yet,' muttered apprehen-
sion, * and in a few weeks much that is bad and disastrous
may happen.'

Between the two moods the girl was worn to a shadow,
and sometimes almost hysterical from her agonised
mental debate as to what was best or most right to do —
betray her suspicions of her sister (for they were but
suspicions) at the last moment, when all might so soon
be put right, or maintain silence, though all should go
wrong.

io8 MADE OR MARRED.

CHAPTER XIV.

CONFESSION.

One afternoon, when the time of Philip's promised
arrival was drawing near, Thekla Berghaus went to call
upon Grace Massey. She found her, as she had expected,
at home and alone, with books spread around her, and a
sheet of paper before her.

*What are you doing?' asked Thekla. *Are you
busy ? Do I disturb you ?'

* You never disturb me. I was doing this work now,
intending to walk up to your house this evening, but I
am glad you came here instead. Take off your hat, and
we'll have a cup of tea.'

Thekla did not decline the proffered hospitality. She
put off her hat, seated herself on the sofa, and said :

* I am glad I found you in. I did not want you to
come up to our house to-night, or at all, until I had seen
you and spoken to you.'

* No ! Why ?' asked Grace, looking up in momentary
surprise.

* Because you would have discovered something which
I want to tell you — not leave you to find it out.'

* Ah !' said Grace, sweeping away her books and
writing materials, as the maid came in with the tray oi
afternoon tea.

She said nothing more, but poured out some for
Thekla, who sat looking somewhat nervous. Grace
carried the cup to her, placed it beside her at the corner
of the table, and laying one hand on Thekla's shoulder,
said, in a low voice :

CONFESSION. 109

* Thekla, you have got engaged to some one !'

* Yes, I have,' replied Thekla, suddenly looking up,
and throwing her arms round Grace's neck, she pressed
it tightly with one or two convulsive little hugs ; ' I have.
What have you to say to it ?*

* Tell me first if it is Mr. Reichhardt ?'

* It is Fritz Reichhardt — yes.'

' Then I wish you every happiness that you deserve,
and if you get that you will have no end of joy. Fritz
Reichhardt is a good fellow. I think he deserves you
too, almost.'

* Thank you ; I'll tell him so,' said Thekla, beginning
to stir her tea.

Both girls had hard work to abstain from tears, partly
because they were girls, talking about an engagement,
and partly because of a flood of memories — of hopes,
fears, and tender thoughts, which had agitated both their
hearts, and to which, as they both felt, it would be
terribly dangerous to make any allusion.

Thekla knew that Grace had ardently desired Philip
to fall in love with her, and ask her to marry him, and
Grace knew that she knew it Grace knew that Thekla
had more than liked Philip ; that since his engagement
to Angela Fairfax she had suffered, and that this engage-
ment meant, amongst other things, escape from a con-
dition which oppressed her ; and Thekla knew that Grace
knew all this. But they were both wisely silent on the
subject. Grace poured out some tea for herself, and
said :

* I suppose it is only just settled, and if I had come
unexpectedly this evening I should have found Mr.
Reichhardt there in his new and successful role of ac-

no MADE OR MARRED.

cepted suitor — and you wished to come and explain
first*

* Yes, that is all about it,' assented Thekla ; ' but you
will come all the same, and see him and me in that role
you speak of, won't you ?'

* With pleasure ; but in that case I shall have to ask
you to go away at once, rude though it may seem, or I
shall never have my Euclid ready for to-morrow morn-
ing.'

* I go at once,' said Thekla, rising. ' Ah, there is
Mabelle Fairfax coming home from school. How wretched
the child looks !'

* Does she not ? My heart aches for her, somehow.'

* Perhaps Angela bullies her.'

* I haven't a doubt of it ; but I know that when Angela
is married to Philip there will be no bullying. Nothing
enrages him so much as to see weak things oppressed.'

Here Thekla took her departure, and Grace was left
alone, to return to her definitions with the reflection :

* She is quite right — quite. But if it could only have
been different !'

CHAPTER XV.

THE END OF A DREAM.

It was half-past one on the following day when Grace
Massey and Mabelle Fairfax came slowly up Lawrence
Street together, returning, the one from school, the other
from college. They had met in Carlton Road, and come
on in company.

THE END OF A DREAM. iii

'Philip will soon be here now,' said Grace. *You
must put on a better face to welcome him, Mabelle. You
look so white and washed out — what they call "fair
pining " where I come from.'

'Oh, I am all right,' said Mabelle, with a sickly
smile.

* Has Angela heard from Philip again ?*

* Not since that day she had a letter saying he was off
to Hongkong, and sailed in two days ; at least,' added
Mabelle, conscientiously, * she has not heard again so far
as I know ; but I go off to school before the postman
comes. Angela does 'not go out till later.'

* Yes. By the way, I think you have too long hours
at school. When your holidays come you must pay us
a visit at Foulhaven. I am sure it will do you good, and
by that time, thank goodness, Philip's engagement will
be public property, and it would be the most natural thing
in the world for you to come. I hate all this secrecy,
and I feel it an absolute wrong to my father and mother,
but surely it will all be over soon !'

* I hope so,' said Mabelle, with a still fainter smile, as
they arrived at home.

* Get your dinner,' pursued the practical Grace. * You
look almost starving, and as for me, I'm ravenous.'

With a cheering nod she parted from Mabelle, and
went to her own quarters. The table was spread, and
Grace, throwing off her hat and mantle, was about to
ring the bell for dinner (for in Lawrence Street that
meal was usually taken in the middle of the day), when
a letter on the mantelpiece, addressed in her mother's
hand, caused her to pause. She opened it, and was
reading it.

112 MADE OR MARRED.

*Dear Gracev,

* Thanks for your nice, long letter, and tell Miss
Berghaus that '

A ring — a strange, trembling, yet loud, importunate
ring at the front door, beginning, as it were, timidly, and
then repeated loudly. So strange a sound was it that
Grace forgot the * ravenous' hunger she had spoken
of, forgot her letter, and stood still, her head raised,
listening.

Presently the front door was opened, and Grace could
hear nothing that passed, only that the door closed again,
and some one came in. Then — it all seemed like a weird
dream — the parlour door was pushed open, and Mabelle
stood there looking like some unhappy little ghost ; she
seemed to have shrunk away and become shorter, smaller,
thinner, during the five or six minutes which had elapsed
since Grace parted from her. Her face was white, her
lips open, her eyes distended, her whole aspect one ot
horror unmitigated.

* Child, child, what is the matter ?' cried Grace, going
to her and grasping her arm, chilled by the look of de-
spair in the young face.

* Don't touch me !' said Mabelle, in a hoarse whisper,
shrinking away from her. * I am not fit for you to touch,
but you must know. Oh, she ought not to have left it all
to me ; indeed she ought not !'

In her quivering hands she held a paper, which Grace,
with an uncontrollable impulse to know the worst, took
from her hand and read, to a broken accompaniment of
scattered words and exclamations from Mabelle.

\

THE END OF A DREAM. iij

'Dearest Mabelle,

* I am sure you will be surprised to find a letter
instead of me when you return from school. Dearest
child, you must try not to feel hurt at what I have done,
but you must see that I had really no alternative. You
must know how unhappy I have been in my engagement
to Philip Massey. As the time approaches for his return
I feel that it is impossible I should ever be united to him
— it would be misery ; and the love which I have learned
to feel for another shows me plainly that to marry Mr.
Massey would be the greatest wrong I could do. The
gentleman whom I am now going to meet, and to whom
I shall be married this morning, is Mr. Fordyce. We
have looked at the matter in every light, and come to the
conclusion that it was best to be married privately. I
have written to Mr. Massey to the hotel in London at
which he said he should stay. I have left you plenty of
money, dearest, to last while we are away, and I will
write to you as soon as possible, and tell you our plans.
Of course, when we return, your home will be with us,
and if you are happy there I shall feel that all the sacri-
fices I have made for you have not been in vain. Au
revoiry then. I will write from Paris, and buy you some-
thing lovely there.

* Your loving sister,

* Angela.'

* The hypocrite !* burst from the lips of Grace, as she
finished ; * oh, the heartless, lying jilt ! Bah !'

Further energetic words were on her energetic lips, but
the dead silence which met her ears caused her to look
Up, chilled her in the midst of her fury of indignation^

8

114 MADE OR MARRED.

Mabelle was supporting herself with both hands against
a chair-back; pale, trembling, shivering from head to
foot, and silent — always silent. It seemed as if the iron
of her sister*s sin, and the shame of it, had entered into
her soul for ever. All she could do was to stand like
some creature which has sinned, and sees the master's
hand about to fall in chastisement — stand and submit.
The utter misery, the sick, trembling wretchedness of the
girl smote Grace's heart. It was all in such contrast with
her sister's baseness.

'Forgive me, Mabelle!' she cried, on a sudden im-
pulse. * I love my brother — God and myself only know
how much — and your sister is a bad, unprincipled woman,
who will have gone near to break his heart by what she
has done ; but you are innocent, I see, and it has shaken
you terribly. Here, sit down, and do not think of going
back yet.'

* No, don't touch me !' said Mabelle, with difficulty
getting her words out. * I knew — I — she '

*You knew — you knew P cried Grace, recoiling, and
flashing a terrible look upon her.

* No — I mean — I did not know this. I knew she had
seen Mr. Fordyce. I thought she had seen him often,
but I did not know. I began to think she would not
marry Philip, and that I ought to speak to you — I — I
didn't know. I am nearly mad, I think,' concluded
Mabelle, with a strange and haggard look around as she
put her hand to her head.

* Please to tell me ' Grace had begun, when the

silence outside was suddenly broken by the sound ot
wheels, and, strange though it might seem in the inten-
sity of their present feelings, both the girls looked

THE END OF A DREAM. iiS

eagerly out of the window, for, deep in the background
of both minds lurked the unspoken fear, * What if Philip,
by any chance, were to arrive to-day — now ?' And Grace,
seeing a cab drive up, and the driver thereof scanning
the numbers on the house-doors, uttered the fear which
paralysed Mabelle's lips.

* If it should be Philip ! Good heavens — I believe it
is Philip !'

Still no answer from Mabelle, while Grace rushed to
the window, and found that her fear was right — the cab
stopped there; that was he, bronzed and tanned, and
looking like a foreigner — much changed — a man to
attract notice now wherever he went ; but Philip, her
very brother Philip, casting impatient glances towards
the house, throwing some coin to the cabman, and striding
up the steps. It was then that the full force of the situ-
ation burst upon both girls.

* He has not been to London at all — he has come by
Liverpool The letter — ^why, he can never have got the
letter. He does not know.'

Grace hurried forth the words, and, losing her presence
of mind, began to walk hurriedly about, wringing her
hands, and muttering :

*What shall I do? Oh, heavens, what shall I do?
What a welcome home ! My poor Philip !'

Mabelle had sunk upon the chair, unable any longer to
stand up — her limbs would not support her, and then —
a step, a stride, and the door was burst open, and Philip
had Grace in his arms, and was laughing with delight, and
kissing her, and saying :

* Now, my child, don't die of surprise — don't, for my

sake !'

9 ^

Ii6 MADE OR MARRED.

In the bitterness of her heart Grace could almost have
been angry with him for his blind, joyful haste, his
oblivion, his utter inattention to everything but the joy
of returning and seeing his beloved ones again.

* Philip,* she said, releasing herself and speaking so-
lemnly, * you don't seem to see that I have a visitor —
and a visitor who has come on a bad errand.'

« Why— what ! Mabelle ! You look ill. What ails
you? There's nothing the matter with Angela, is there?
Speak directly T he added, almost angrily. * Is she ill ?'

* Philip — it is very sad,' began Grace. * Angela has —
has — oh, she has done what is very wrong. She has
treated you very badly.'

* What do you mean ? How dare you say anything
against her? I had a letter from her the day I left
Hongkong, bidding me welcome. I '

His confident words came to an end as he looked from
one to the other of them ; saw Grace's pale, stern face,
and the terrible, overwrought expression of anguish upon
Mabelle's.

* If I could have stopped it ' began this poor little

maiden, in a tremulous voice.

* Mabelle, you ought to have told me,' said Grace,
when Philip's strong voice, drowning their accents, broke
in :

* Stopped what ? I desire to know what has happened.
Where is Angela, and what has she done ?'

* She has eloped with Mr. Fordyce, and got married to
him,' said Grace, facing him, pale, with dilated eyes and
fingers nervously entwined— ready, in her fright, to make
a rush for her life, if Philip's indignation should take a
violent shape.

THE END OF A DREAM. 117

*We only knew this morning — ^just now,' said a voice
at his elbow. * And this is what told us.'

It was Mabelle, who put Angela's letter into his hand,
which Philip took in silence, not deigning to reply to what,
he told himself, was a foul and atrocious lie.

But in the act of reading, his head, which was clear
enough, comprehended quickly the whole state of the
case. He neither swore, nor raved, nor stamped; but
both the girls trembled as he stepped up to the fire,
tearing the paper across, and tossing it into the blaze,
while he said in a low voice :

* I thought I was loved by a pure-hearted woman, but it
seems I have been fooled and jilted by a coarse — ha, ha !'

It was a dreadful, bitter little laugh. It sent the blood
rushing over Grace's face ; it elicited a faint moan only
from Mabelle, which sound caused Grace to turn to her
once more, saying :

* Oh, Mabelle, if you had but told '

Philip looked at the girl indifferently, as if she and hers
were henceforth beneath his notice, or even his contempt.
But when he saw nothing but a limp, lifeless-looking white
figure, crouched in a sort of unconscious heap against the
table, he strode forward and raised her up, and carried her
in his arms to the sofa,

*No reproaches here, Grace. Don't you see she has
fainted ? Healthy girls are not in the habit of fainting,
even for things like this. She has gone through some-
thing that has been too much for her — more than she
could bear. Look to her, that's a good girl. I'll carry
her upstairs, if you like, but don't let me see her again
— or, stop,' he added serenely, ' I'll go down to the ofiice.
It seems there is nothing better iox me to do now. Yes,

Ii8 MADE OR MARRED.

ril go down to the office and report myself. I shall be
back some time this evening, Grace.'
And with that he was gone.

CHAPTER XVI.

REACTION.

He was gone, and to Grace the room seemed strangely
silent and empty. It did not appear as if he had only
been there a few brief moments, and had then disappeared
again, but rather as if he had been there a very long
time, and now that he had departed she could not get
accustomed to his absence. While she bent over the
unconscious Mabelle, and tended her, and summoned
her landlady to help her, and listened to the loud and
forcible exclamations of the latter, Grace's thoughts were
wholly occupied with Philip. How happy ! how hand-
some and eager he had looked as he came in, so full of
health and prosperity, of hope and joy ! What a white
dismal change had settled over his face as he read An-
gela's letter, and in those words of his, as he burnt that
letter, what a curse there lay I What trenchant, bitter,
uncompromising contempt ! Grace took comfort in the
remembrance ; for his looks, words, and gestures had not
been those of a man who would succumb under the most
treacherous blow.

No wonder this poor little girl had lost consciousness
altogether, thought Grace — she, the unhappy little par-
ticipator in the secret, worn and unstrung by weeks of
foreboding and anxiety. Had not Grace herself, inno-

REACTION. 119

cent and clear of conscience, felt her cheeks bum and
her heart beat with terror as she heard him speak, and
trembled more at what he implied than at what he actu-
ally said ?

By slow degrees Mabelle regained consciousness, and ,
when she was fully restored to her senses it filled Grace's
heart with compunction to see the change which had
taken place. Now that the terror was over, that the
storm had broken, all her factitious strength gave way ;
the enforced energy which had sustained her collapsed,
and the weariness which overspread her face and the
languor which oppressed her limbs were overpowering.

* Has he gone ? Has Philip gone, or is he here yet ?'
she asked, with a return of her terrified, hunted look.

* He has gone, child. He will not return till evening.
Lie still and drink this wine.'

Mabelle shook her head, passed her hand across her
forehead, and said, pressing her head wearily upon the
hard little sofa pillow :

* No, thank you. My head aches — oh, dreadfully !
And I am so tired. I don't feel very well, and I don't
think I can go to school this afternoon.'

* Go to school ! I should think not I You will lie
still here, and I shall sit beside you, and no one will in-
terrupt us. Yes, Mrs. Livsey, you may bring in dinner, and
set a place for Miss Fairfax, because she will stay with me.'

But she could not prevail upon Mabelle to touch
food; only to lie still upon the sofa until Grace haa
made some pretence of a meal, and then neither threats
nor persuasions would induce the young girl to stay a
moment longer. She would go into their own lodgings
* and rest,' she said.

I20 MADE OR MARRED.

Grace said firmly that she did not think her fit to be
left alone, and would go with her, but this Mabelle also
declined ; and all Grace could extract from her was a
promise that she would send for her if she should not
feel better in the evening. She watched her out of the
house — a slight, drooping, broken-looking young figure
— and she suddenly remembered how she had drawn
Philip to the window that Monday morning after her
arrival, and had asked him who that bright, pretty young
girl was who walked so uprightly. The remembrance of
that happy morning, and of all that had passed since,
overpowered Grace. Flinging herself upon the couch on
which Mabelle had been lying, she covered her face with
her hands, and wept sore.

Towards six o'clock came a note from Philip, dated
from the office.

'Dearest Grace,

* I find I shall not be able to come up to Lawrence
Street this evening. They are so excited at having got
me back down here that I can't get away, and Grey
insists upon my going for a couple of days with him,
and being introduced to Lady Elizabeth. Do you
remember all about Lady Elizabeth, and the time of
Grey's wedding ? Will you send down by the messenger
the smallest of my portmanteaus ? I will write you to-
morrow or the next day. Do not mention anything of
what has happened this morning in your letters home. I
shall be there soon, and will tell my mother myself. It
is due to her that I should.
* Good-bye for the present, dear child.

* Philip,

REACTION. 121

*P.S. — By-the-bye, will you, for my sake, give an eye
to poor little Mabelle Fairfax ? She looked to me very
ill, and, whatever the rest of the world may be, she is
guiltless.'

Scarcely had Grace despatched the required luggage,
than the landlady from the next house came in, request-
ing to see her, and told her that Miss Fairfax appeared
to be very ill, and, as her sister was away, would Miss
Massey come in, and say what she thought ought to be
done?

Grace complied, ^nd found Mabelle restless, flushed,
feverish, and, as it seemed to her, very ill indeed. She
made her go to bed, sent for a doctor, took her place
beside Mabelle's bed, and, as it eventually proved, did
not leave her for a fortnight. Mabelle was sick almost
* unto death,' and to desert her Grace's heart must have
been harder than it was. She nursed the girl tenderly,
making light of the illness in the accounts which she was
compelled to send to Angela — sorely against her will

During the first days of convalescence she heard from
Mabelle's lips the whole story of her struggles and trials,
and before her task was over she had grown to love her
patient as dearly as a sister.

* Whatever the rest of the world may be, she is guilt-
less.'

She echoed Philip's words from the bottom of her
heart.

122 MADE OR MARRED.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT MR. grey's.

Philip left the house, towards the moment of entering
which he had yearned so eagerly, and for such long and
weary weeks, and passed out into the street again. During
the ten minutes or quarter of an hour which had elapsed
since he had driven up to the door, no great convulsion
of nature had taken place. Was it likely that anything
of the kind should have occurred ? And yet it seemed to
Philip, and no doubt would have so seemed to nine men
out of ten in his position, amazing that everything should
look just as it had done before — the sun still shining with
April brightness — the people quietly passing up and down
the familiar street ; even one or two faces that he knew j
an ugly omnibus conductor with one eye, there he was,
in his old place, as the vehicle went down. All outside
was as before; it was only within himself, Philip Massey,
that such awful, stupendous changes seemed to have
taken place.

Of course, he did not in the least realise what had
happened yet; but he knew there was some horrible
calamity in the distance which hung over him and op-
pressed him like a distant thundercloud in a summer
sky. The cloud would roll up, and burst in a storm.
So would his calamity roll up soon, and burst upon his
mind in full force. Falsehood, treachery, the most
hideous, frightful lies — the basest, vilest intrigues — soon
he would have to grasp it all, and understand that they
had all been practised — all these abominations — by the
woman whom he had set up in his heart as in a shrine.

AT MR. grey's. 123

and worshipped with his whole soul. He shuddered a
little in anticipation of the coming horror, but managed
to stave it off for the present, and to arrive at the
well-known office, looking tranquil and calm and self-
possessed.

He went into the room full of clerks, who looked up
as he entered, and one of them began civilly :

' What can I why, Philip Massey ! So it is. Are

you back, old fellow ! and how are you ?'

Hearty hand-shakes and warm greetings from all his
old friends, and the admiring glances of new hands fol-
lowed, after which Philip suggested that he would like to
see Mr. Starkie, and was straightway ushered into that
gentleman's private room.

Here, too, the greetings were warm, for Philip had
done well the work which had been entrusted to him,
and by his promptitude, decision, and presence of mind
had saved his firm from considerable pecuniary loss, as
well as losses in reputation which would have been
more serious to them; and they, being liberal men,
were ready to acknowledge good service, of whatever
kind

While Philip was deep in explanations to Mr. Starkie,
and feeling an occasional slight shiver as there started
across his mind a sense of what was awaiting him when
the excitement should be over, and he alone with himself
and his thoughts, in the midst of this Mr. Grey entered.
Mr. Grey was a handsome, broad-shouldered, distin-
guished-looking young man of about thirty, said to be
somewhat reserved and distant, but whom Philip had
always liked in the slight and rare intercourse he had ever
had with him. He greeted Philip with cordiality, entered

124 MADE OR MARRED.

into conversation with him, and interested in what Philip
told him, invited him to return with him that afternoon
to his house, spend a couple of nights with him, and be
introduced to his wife.

At any other time the prospect would have been dis-
tasteful to Philip, or rather, his heart, which was warm
and simple, as true men's hearts are, would have rebelled
at the idea of going to strange houses, and visiting strange
persons, while he had scarce spoken half a dozen words
to his favourite sister, and his father and mother, at home
at Foulhaven, did not even know that he was again in his
native land. But these circumstances were quite abnor-
mal. The idea of getting into completely new scenes
and places was a tempting one. He accepted Mr. Grey's
invitation, and sent to Grace the note which has already
been spoken of.

Calliards, Mr. Grey's place, was some eight or nine
miles out of Irkford, a pleasant spot in the fresh, unpol-
luted country, with purple moors and green woods around
it. Mr. Grey drove there when business was over, and
the drive through the April evening was pleasant — the
air was cool, the sun was setting with clear beams and
casting long shadows; they bowled swiftly along the
pleasant country roads, and turned in before it was dusk
along a limestone drive with a fir plantation on either
side, and up to a large, pleasant, irregular grey stone
house. They entered through a tiled hall into a bright-
looking sitting-room, in which a lady sat embroidering,
to whom Philip was introduced — this was Lady Elizabeth
Grey.

Philip's troubles really seemed for the time to melt
into the background as he stood talking to this handsome,

AT MR. GREY S. 125

upright, unaffected girl, of some one or two and twenty
years of age.

* My dear,' Mr. Grey had said, * let me introduce
Mr. Massey, a gentleman who has been doing great
things for us out in China — Massey, Lady Elizabeth
Grey.'

* I must really shake hands with you if you have been
doing great things,' said Lady Elizabeth, pleasantly.
* Has Mr. Massey come to stay, Dick ?'

* He can stay a couple of days, he says, and I dare say
he can tell you adventures enough to satisfy even you, for
he has been in a wild part of the world. Is that the
dressing-bell? We are later than I thought.'

* It is the dressing-bell, and by the way there are some
people coming to dinner. I wonder who I shall give to
you to take in to dinner, Mr. Massey. What sort of young
ladies do you like ?'

* I shall be sure to like any young lady you may choose
for me,' replied Philip, with a sudden flush and a sudden
spasm of pain at his heart ; but he found that this pain
was still quite within his control He could bear it with-
out any contortions of countenance, and even while it was
gnawing most fiercely could smile and talk as if at peace
and charity with all men.

Then he was taken upstairs and left to dress, which
operation he hurried over as rapidly as possible, dreading
every five minutes alone with himself and that spectre
which was ready to spring out upon him in the first un-
guarded moment.

Next came dinner, and the pleasant, sociable evening,
during which Philip, to his great surprise, found himself
quite a lion in a small way, and had enough to do in

126 MADE OR MARRED.

answering the innumerable questions put to him by two
very engaging young ladies, who professed to take an
intense interest in China and all pertaining to it, but
whose chief anxiety appeared to be to learn what speci-
mens of pottery or other curiosities he had brought with
him from the Celestial Land.

* I like your Mr. Massey, Dick,' said Lady Elizabeth,
in a moment's aside with her husband. * He has one of
the best faces I ever saw, as well as one of the hand-
somest.'

* Yes ; I'm glad you like him, but I think his manner
is rather odd sometimes. Don't you observe how every
now and then he almost starts, and looks suddenly
around, as if — it's difficult to describe the expression.
And he has been gazing intently at Miss Woodside for
the last two minutes, without hearing a word she said.'

* Oh yes, I have noticed it. But didn't you say he had
only arrived at home to-day? And you have dragged
him off here, when I dare say he would much rather be
somewhere else, or with someone else.'

* True I I never thought of that. It is likely enough.'

* And yet it is not a year since you would have said it
was very hard to be dragged off somewhere else, when
you might have gone to Clevely Park,' retorted Lady
Elizabeth, maliciously.

The evening came to an end very soon, as it seemed, to
Philip, and when the party had dispersed, and the others
retired, he was naturally obliged to do the same, though he
lingered as long as he could, accepted his host's invitation
to come and have a cigar in the smoking-room, and so on,
so that it was past midnight when he at last found him-
self alone in his room.

AT MR. grey's. 127

But once there, he felt that the anguish which had so
long been as it were staved off at arm's length could be
so averted no longer. It all came over him with a rush,
and overwhelmed him.

The attempt to describe hours like those Philip was
passing through must always be painful and generally a
failure. When we fall ourselves, we may feel anguish and
remorse, may call ourselves hard names, abase ourselves
to the dust, and seek chastisement for our sins, but be-
hind all compunction is the consciousness : * After all, I
never was perfect to begin with ; what I have done has
not put me outside the pale of humanity, and there is
the future in which I may strive to expiate my sin.' But
when one's ideal goes — when what was highest, purest,
holiest, what seemed stainless and unimpeachable,
crumbles suddenly down before one's horror-struck
eyes, into common dust — one can no longer see with
undistorted vision; the reaction is blinding, and the
miserable dust looks like a heap of dreadful corruption.
Thus it was with Philip, and it was with this overwhelm-
ing disaster that he had to battle that night. Sleep, he
felt, was out of the question, but, seeing that his bedroom
had a round bow-window, opening to the floor, he unfas-
tened it, and saw that a little iron balcony ran round it.
The night air blew keen and fresh, but invigoratingly upon
him. He stepped forth, and resting his elbows upon the
ledge of the balcony, leaned there, and gazed drearily
out into the night There was a late moon, just about to
disappear behind a range of low moors to the west — he
dimly saw the trees in the garden, and the flower-beds
beneath his window, and the smoothly-shaven lawns.
Further away, he beheld the gleam of water— there was

128 MADE OR MARRED.

an artificial lake, he remembered, which he had noticed
as they drove up to the house. All was very still and quiet,
the whole establishment seemed hushed in repose. This
time last night he had been eagerly longing for home ;
had been thinking of Angela, of the pleasure, the surprise
of his own sudden arrival. When had he ever ceased to
think of her ? It was of her he had thought as he landed,
of her as he hurried as rapidly as trains and cabs could
take him, to Irkford— of her, and of her only, when he
arrived, and, while he was driving through the dingy, well-
known streets— of her, as, like a flood, the remembrance
of the same rushed over his mind — Grace, Mabelle, the
few short and terrible moments during which his leap from
light to darkness had been taken.

* She was married this morning,' he muttered to him-
self. * My God ! what are women made of, that they
can do these things — married this morning, and not three
weeks ago she was writing to me as her " dearest Philip !"
Suppose I were to send the letters to old Fordyce, with-
out further note or comment — ha, ha I It's a mad world,
my masters, a mad world . . . Well, a man does not die
because a woman has lied to him, and I suppose other
men and women will not visit it as a sin upon Philip
Massey that Angela Fairfax first made a fool of him, and
then jilted him ... I came home, certain that I was a
made man, every way, and it seems I'm a marred one
instead — in the only quarter where I cared for success.'

The idea * success ' awoke other memories, and he re-
membered his game with Thekla Berghaus, and their
definitions of success.

*And I said Grey had been successful, and she did
not seem so sure about it ; but I was right, after all, foi*

AT MR. grey's. 129

he has got an honest woman for his wife. I suppose
Grace meant that one day when she spoke to me. What
a fool I was !'

The night wore on, and the moon disappeared, and
dawn broke in the east, bringing a glad new day, with
new hopes and joys, to the world in general ; but when
the sun arose in his beauty, he found Philip Massey with
a very empty heart.

CHAPTER XVIII.

PhlLIP OFFERS TO GO IN SEARCH OF BLUE ROSES.

Philip stayed his two days ' and two nights at Mr.
Grey's, saw much fine company, and had several con-
versations with Lady Elizabeth, who was very kind
to him, and asked him to come and see them again.
From Calliards he wrote to his mother, telling her he
was coming over to Foulhaven soon, and on leaving
Mr. Grey's house he went back to Irkford and the office,
and asked to see Mr. Starkie in private. During his wan-
derings about the fir plantations at Calliards, he had made
up his mind what to do if the doing it were within the
realm of possibility.

The interview was granted at once, and Mr. Starkie
began :

* Well, Massey, I'm glad to see you. I suppose you
want a little settling-up of business matters, eh ? You
have been drawing your usual salary while you were
away, but of course you knew there would be a differ-
ence on your return. That cheque will make it right,
and for the future *

9

130 MADE OR MARRED.

»

Philip had taken up the cheque and looked at it.

* You are very good, sir. This is very liberal, and I am
much obliged to you, but ' — and he did not pocket the
cheque with the joyful smile which Mr. Starkie was accus-
tomed to see on such occasions — * there is something else
I wished to say, if you will allow me.'

* Say on. Are you not satisfied with the cheque ?'

* It is much more than is due to my poor services. If
I have really been of any assistance to you— if — -^ — '

* You have been of very real and material assistance,
and you must not think we labour under the impression
that a cheque can pay off a debt like that*

' And you would not think me presumptuous if I ven-
tured to say that you could far more than repay me in a
different way than by giving me cheques or money ?'

* Certainly ! Anything, almost, in reason. What is it
you would like ?*

* I would like, if you have any other expedition on hand
like the one I have just returned from, that you should
send me out again — anywhere — I don't care where, so
that it is far enough.*

*You wish to go away again? I should have
thought *

* I know w^hat you would have thought, sir, and at one
time I should have been of the same opinion, but not
now. I want to get away. I don't care what the work
is, nor where the place is ; and if you told me to set off
to morrow in search of green diamonds, or blue roses, or
anything, I should be delighted. Not to-morrow, per-
haps, but the day after.'

* Well, there is such an affair— -not to search for blue
roses '

A .SEARCH FOR BLUE ROSES. 131

* I didn't mean that, sir ; IVe been looking for blue
roses for some time, and not found them. But I am glad
to hear you have anything I could do,' said Philip, a
gleam of pleasure lighting his sombre, haggard eyes.

* Where may it be, and what ?'

* It is not China this time, but Australia,' said his chief ;

* diamond rock-boring for coal. It's in '

* Ah !' said Philip, with still greater gratification appa-
rent in his face. * That sounds well, and it would be a
longer affair than the other, I suppose ?'

' Three years,' replied Mr. Starkie, gravely.

* Three years !' Philip echoed the words. Three years
alone, with one European comrade and a few colonial
workpeople ; such, he gathered from Mr. Starkie's re-
marks, was to be the arrangement. Three years away
from friends and home, with precarious chances of send-
ing or receiving news. Three years safe — three years in
which he must be away. All the better, he said roughly
within himself ; what had he to stay at home for ? Who
would ever want to stay vegetating in England who
could go away like this ? His cheek, which had grown
somewhat hollow during the last few days, flushed,
and his eyes brightened again as he looked up to Mr.
Starkie.

* If you only consider me trustworthy, and will give me
the chance,* said he, *I would rather have it than a
thousand pounds. I am in earnest, sir ; I am indeed.
I would give more than I can tell you, if you would let
me have my way in this.'

' I see you are in earnest,' replied the other, gravely.
*You need not look so excited. You shall have the
job, and if there is anyone you are anxious to see, go at

9-2

!32 MADE OR MARRED.

once and see them, for you will have to be off in about
a week.'

* Must I ? That's good,* said Philip, rising and straight-
ening himself, with a feverish, repressed kind of sigh.
* Then Til go to Foulhaven to-day, and return here at
the end of the week, shall I ?'

* Well, the beginning of next week would do. There's
no such desperate hurry as that.'

* Very well. Say next Monday,' said Philip.

* What has become of that pretty sister of yours, whom
I went to meet for you one day ?' inquired Mr. Starkie,
benevolently.

* Grace ?' said Philip, looking startled. * Oh, she's all
right, thank you — quite well'

And at last he effected his escape.

CHAPTER XIX.

FAREWELL.

Philip went home to Foulhaven, and it seemed as if the
days absolutely flew by in the old home — the great old stone
farmhouse on the breezy down where everything was so
peaceful, so quiet, and so homely — in such intense con-
trast to the life he had just left and to that upon which
he was about to enter.

This birthplace of his w^as a beautiful place. The
ancient house stood on the side of a down facing south-
west, sheltered by rising ground to the east, where was
the sea. Foulhaven w^as a beautiful old town, and the

FAREWELL. 133

sea a grand one which washed the coast there, continu-
ally rolling its glorious surges up to the foot of the great
cliffs. From the farm one might walk over Mr. Massey's
fields and the thymy downs to the edge of the said cliffs,
and there, away from sight or sound of human habitation,
watch the great green rollers come sweeping up, and
bursting into long crested lines of snowy breakers. One
might see the smoke of the great steamers from New-
castle and Hull ploughing their way, as it were, to the
horizon line, while the heavens above were blue, and
the grass beneath was green, and all the earth was
lovely.

What Philip Massey told his mother of what had be-
fallen I know not He sat with her one whole spring
morning in her favourite painted chamber, as it was
called ; the room with the pleasant Elizabethan windows
and quaint painted panels and chests brought long ago
from Holland ; the room whose windows looked over the
downs, and from which, being an upper chamber, one
could see the sea. Here Philip found her darning linen
— lavender-scented linen — one morning, and what he told
her on the subject of his luckless love was told then,
and of his future plans, hopes, or wishes.

When at last he rose to go she rose too. She was a
handsome, stately matron, strikingly like both Philip and
Grace ; homely in speech and manner, yet dignified be-
cause of her own inward dignity and worthiness — a brave,
pious, simple Yorkshirewoman of Wensleydale, and a
woman whose powerful will and upright, simple character
she had happily transmitted to more than one of her
children.

* it is a sad thing, my son,' she said, * but you are right

134 MADE OR MARRED.

not to shirk it because of that. I feel you have told me
simple, unexaggerated truth '

* On my honour, mother, as I have learned truth from
you.*

* And I, as your mother, tell you that you have done
nothing in the matter for which your conscience need
prick you. And if you cannot stay at home and live it
down, go away and live it ouL There is a difference,
Philip.'

* I know there is.'

*Go, then, and take my blessing with you, and re-
member that whether you are at home or abroad your
mother prays for you on her knees night and morning.'

He bent his head, and she laid her hand upon it,
saying, * God bless you, Philip,' and he went out. His
mother, looking forth from the window of the painted
chamber, saw him soon afterwards wandering out through
the farmyard into the fields, and across the downs towards
the sea.

' My brave lad, and must you go too ?' she soliloquised;
* and because a wicked flirt thought you not good enough
for her conceit. He goes towards the sea — they all go
to the sea who have been born near it, when they are in
trouble. I used to wander there myself in times of
trouble, and look across it till my eyes ached. The
father used to do the same, and every girl and boy of
mine have taken their bits of troubles to the sea ; now
Philip, with his great grief, must go too. . . . Heaven
help him, and send him safe back to me, at peace and
charity with all men !'

^^^ ^x^ ^^^ ^^^

The days flew by. Philip had to bid good-bye to the

FAREWELL. 135

sleepy farm, to the rolling downs, to the grim ruin of the
ancient Abbey of St. Ethelfleda which glared from the
high ground of the east cliff upon all the surrounding
land and sea ; to the old red town of Foulhaven, crowd-
ing up the cliff on either side the river ; to the two old
stone piers between which the fishing boats went ever
sailing in and out — to all these he said farewell, and was
gone, whether ever to return who should dare to say ?

A brief visit to Grace at Irkford, who told him that
Mabelle was tossing in fever, unconscious of all around
her, and that she, Grace, was nursing her.

*Good girl!' said he, absently. * Nurse her kindly,
Grace, for after she leaves you she will only have her
sister to protect her, and the tender mercies of such as
she are cruel'

He smiled somewhat contemptuously as he spoke.
Grace was so overwhelmed at his near departure that she
could hardly speak.

* Oh, Philip, come back again !' she implored, between
her tears.

'Come back again! Probably I shall. Don't cry,
little sister. Good-bye ! Look after Mabelle, for my
sake.'

CHAPTER XX.

AT RED LEES.

Foulhaven, in the summer-time, was a pleasant place,
and Red Lees, the great farm where Mr. Massey the
elder lived in almost patriarchal state, was one of the

136 MADE OR MARRED.

very pleasantest spots in the vicinity. There was a kind
of conservatism about Foulhaven — a chronic depression
in its trade, an absence of * go ' in its shopkeepers, and
an amateurishness about the proceedings of its mayor
and corporation, all of which things, combined, it is to
be presumed, with other causes, prevented it from
developing into a large and flourishing town, and allowed
it to remain one of the loveliest, sleepiest, quaintest places
that it is possible to imagine.

Three years had rolled by since Philip Massey had
left his home and said good-bye to his sister with the
final injunction, * Look after Mabelle.' The three years
had expired in April ; it was now August, and he had
not returned — was not expected to return until late in
the autumn. Indeed, it was somewhat doubtful whether
he might come home even then. In his few and rather
meagre letters he spoke of the possibility of another
commission, which might take him to some other distant
quarter of the world, in order to reach which it would
not be at all necessary to call at Foulhaven, or even to
visit England. Of course there were hopes and fears at
home, longings that he would come, and lamentations on
the state of uncertainty in which he left them, but a
conviction underlying all that he would go his own way,
and that he knew, better than anyone else, what was best
for himself.

One peaceful August afternoon everyone and every-
thing at Red Lees appeared to be taking a prolonged
siesta. There was silence in the farmyard, silence in the
sunny garden, except where the bees were buzzing and
humming about the hives, silence in the spacious old
house itself, silence everywhere. The wide entrance

AT RED LEES. I37

door stood open, so that one could see into the sunny,
square hall, with the black oak table in the centre, on
which stood the great blue china jar, full of gorgeous
roses, pink and white and crimson, and the queen of
them all, the yellow Gloire de Dijon, with its musky
fragrance. The hall was flagged, and in summer the
flags were innocent of matting or carpet. On one side
were the polished oaken stairs, with broad carved hand-
rail and twisted sticks. The deep wainscoting was of
oak, too, and the doors of the parlours the same. A
large, ample, chintz-covered sofa stood on one side,
strewed with books and a half-knitted stocking, in the
midst of which debris the blue Skye terrier. Doctor Johnson
(why so called no one had ever been able to discover,
but the name was his, and he answered to it), had coiled
himself up after turning round four times, and subsided,
with a deep, drawn-out sigh, expressive of beatitude un-
speakable. And now he lay there sleeping, occasionally
stretching out a paw, or pricking up one of his silky ears ;
and the yellow canary appeared to sleep in his cage near
the door, and the great grey parrot was quiet on her
perch opposite the object of her contempt and spite, the
aforesaid canary. Had you or anyone else peeped into
the room on the left, close by the sofa, the stalwart form
of Mr. Massey would have been apparent, his red and
yellow pocket-handkerchief lightly thrown over his face,
his hands folded, his limbs outstretched, sleeping the
sleep of the just. In the rocking-chair by the window
sat, not slept, his wife — she was not of a drowsy tempera-
ment — but with her usual after-dinner recreation, a volume
of fiction or poetry in her hand.

In the room to the right of the hall, which was the

138 MADE OR MARRED.

drawing-room, or parlour, as they called it, there was
another great sofa, of the good old kind which has now
ceased to be manufactured, and upon that sofa was
stretched the shape of Grace Massey. She, too, was
apparently lost to outside things. The book which she
had seemingly been reading, and which may have had
the soothing effect mentioned, had fallen from her hand
upon the floor ; it bore the title, * Political Economy —
John Stuart Mill.'

Is there anyone else, sleeping or waking, on the pre-
mises ? It would seem so, for there came flitting down
the broad, black stairs, the slender figure of a girl, tall
and lissom, dressed in some soft, flowing, grey stuff,
carrying a book in her hand, and holding by the brim a
broad, shady, straw hat.

She came gliding down the stairs, and paused in the
hall, looked around and seemed to listen. Then, look-
ing into the drawing-room, she beheld the prostrate form
of Grace, and smiled, an irrepressible smile, which ran
over all her face, and brightened it like a flash of sun-
shine. She stole softly away, and looked next into the
dining parlour, saw the sleeping master and the reading
mistress of the house, and came on tiptoe towards the
latter, who had looked up.

* Going out, Mabelle, all alone ?' asked Mrs. Massey.

* Yes. Grace is asleep. Won't it be fun to tell Her-
mann that -she has actually been seen slumbering over
John Stuart MilFs '* Political Economy " ?* Mrs. Massey
smiled, and shook her head. * And I want you to tell
her when she awakes — but don't disturb her on any account
— that I shall be in the hollow on the cliff, you know,
and shall stay there till t^a-time. So good-bye till then.'

AT RED LEES. 139

Mrs. Massey looked up, and the sweet face looked
down. Mabelle dropped a kiss upon the matron's cheek,
and went away again, putting on her shady hat as she
w^ent out into the sunshine.

Delicious, glowing warmth of an August afternoon —
when the spicy pinks and carnations send up an incense
too precious to be forgotten ; when the late roses and
mignonette in some forgotten corner of the garden blend
with that incense ; when the trees are full of plums and
pears and summer apples ; when woods are heavy with
the sober greens of ripe maturity ; when the mere sensa-
tion of being out amongst it all gives one a feeling of
voluptuous wellbeing ; when one's very thoughts seem to
partake of the haze of heat and light which floats in the
distance, and w^hen a dolcefar niente is the sweetest thing
that life can give. And to gain sensations like these
there is no such place in the world as an old-fashioned
garden.

Slowly Mabelle took her way through the garden,
gathering here and there some sweetly-scented flower,
and lingering amongst the many fragrances as if she
could not bear to part from them. Then, by degrees,
out of the garden and into the first fields surrounding
the house. No sooner had she arrived there than some-
thing jumped up against her dress, and looking down she
perceived the fussy-looking person of Doctor Johnson,
who had seen her proceedings in the hall from one
corner of one eye, but who had only just persuaded him-
self to leave his delicious corner on the sofa, and whose
wriggling body and pleading tail now said distinctly.
You can never think of leaving me behind !'

* Oh, Doctor Johnson, you want to come too ! Well,

I40 MADE OR MARRED.

you shall, if you don't run after the sheep/ she observed,
which observation the Doctor, perfectly comprehending,
hailed with three active bounds and as many sharp, ex-
cited barks, while Mabelle's step hastened itself some-
what in sympathy with the creature's eagerness.

A walk of ten minutes along the well-known field-paths
brought her to the cliffs, and to the agreeable little
hollow where she and Grace were wont to sit with their
books and work, idling away the sweet, long summer
days.

From this little cove one could look down upon the
shore, and when the tide was high there was nothing to
be seen below but a heaving gr^en depth, clear as crystal,
and indescribably beautiful. One might dwell for pages
upon the strange tints and shadows, the changing, myste-
rious lights and gleams and flashes of foam, and sudden
darknesses of that noble sea which washed the cliffs
about Foulhaven, but that the description might wax
tedious, and could not give the faintest idea of the
whole.

Once, when some person was feebly and hopelessly
quoting the words about *the light that never was, on sea
or land,' Mabelle suddenly burst forth, ' But you are quite
mistaken ; it is there ! I have seen it ! It is the green
light on the waves at Foulhaven.' And the company
laughed, and did not believe her ; but Mabelle spoke the
words of truth and soberness notwithstanding.

From where she sat this afternoon she could not see,
without standing up and craning her neck for the pur-
pose, the two old stone piers to the south, with each an
odd, stumpy-looking lighthouse at the end of it, between
which the river ran into the sea, so that they helped to

AT RED LEES. 141

form a kind of harbour, in and out of which the fishing
craft went sailing, sailing, every day, with their red-brown
or saffron-coloured sails gently spreading to* the breeze.
But she could see, as she lay back with her hands clasped
behind her head, a little speck of the top of the great
East Cliff, which was so high and mighty, and in stormy
weather so grim and terrible. And upon that speck
stood the defiant-looking ruin of a very ancient abbey,
yclept of St. Ethelfleda.

Go where one would in the neighbourhood of Foul-
haven, this frowning ruin confronted one, and seemed to
dominate every part of the landscape. It looked grimly
down upon the voyagers in ships at sea ; while the blue
sky gleamed through the broken tracery of its fine old
windows. By land, no matter where, west, north, or
south, though it might be hidden for a moment by some
lofty bank, some bend in the road, or some hedge of
trees, yet, emerge once more and again you saw it,
towering above everything else — an ancient guardian, en-
dowed with the impressiveness which only such strange,
hoary buildings can have — the survivor of a hundred
kings, and the beacon for miles around to those who * go
down into the deep in ships.'

Now, Mabelle Fairfax lay back and gazed at the gaunt
old ruin and speculated about it, and wove the webs of
her hopes and fears, and her wonders as to what life held
for her as she watched white clouds sailing seawards be-
hind its windows.

* How good they are to me !' she thought. * They
actually want me to stay another month, and I have been
here for three weeks already ! And how I should like it !
August now, and they don't expect Philip home till

142 MADE OR MARRED.

October, so I have plenty of time to stay a month, and
be gone away for ever so long before he comes. Of
course, I can never come here when he is at home ; the
very sight of me would make him furious, I should
think/

Here she sighed and half closed her eyes, while her
thoughts wandered away upon other tracks, and Doctor
Johnson sat beside her, blinking at the ruins of the abbey
with his tongue out, and occasionally turning his head
and glancing at her over his shoulder with a half smile,
as who would say, * We are well off together.'

Thus she had remained for some time, w^ith her eyes
now open, now shut, with the faint breeze fitfully
touching her cheek, and the deep, mysterious murmur
of the ocean below, like a bass chorus to the joyful song
of nature.

* You might have called me when you went out,' cried
the voice of Grace, and Mabelle started, wide awake
now, and sat up.

' I would not have wakened you for the world from
such a refreshing slumber,' she said, laughing.

* And you have alienated the affection of my dog to
such an extent that he always follows you now, and
never me. Doctor Johnson, sir, come here !' said his
mistress, seating herself and holding out her hand to
him.

Doctor Johnson looked from one to the other, shuffled
foolishly about on his haunches, and remained where he
was, with a deprecating grin.

* I'm going to tell Hermann that he must not expect
you to be at liberty in the afternoon, as you take a slight
sleep then,' pursued Mabelle.

AT RED LEES. I43

* Hermann, indeed !* remarked Grace.

It may here be explained that Miss Massey had com-
pleted her college course, passed her examinations with
high honours, and been declared competent in knowledge
to form the minds of any young ladies in Great Britain
and Ireland ; had returned home, expressing stern and
unalterable resolutions to devote herself to a life of
study, of making herself a career in some form or other,
and showing the admiring world what a woman can do ;
had gone to visit her friends the Berghauses in Irkford,
and after a prolonged stay had returned to Foulhaven,
escorted by Hermann, engaged to be married to him, and
looking rather foolish when questioned on the subject of
her * career/ Though it is very certain that had circum-
stances not destined her for the career of a wife and
mother, this young lady might have filled with honour
many another post.

It was to an approaching visit of Hermann that
Mabelle alluded on the present occasion.

Of Mabelle's own life, it is only necessary here to say
a few words. Three years ago, in her illness and sore
distress, at the time when Angela had put the crown to
her iniquities by marrying Mr. Fordyce, Mabelle had so
wound herself about the heart and the affections of Grace
Massey that the latter could not desert her, despite her
strong convictions on the subject of her sister's conduct.
On Angela's return from her wedding tour, she had, with
her husband, taken up her residence in one of the de-
sirable mansions frequently mentioned during the course
of this veracious narrative, and there she had received what
her soul — or what she was pleased to consider her soul
—desired, that is to say, carriages and horses, massive

144 , MADE OR MARRED.

jewellery, and silk attire ; luxur)' and ease to her hearths
content, and slavery therewith. Mr. Fordyce viewed
many subjects in a light other than that in which they
appeared to his wife's eyes. He was rather fond of her ;
but there were moments in which he wondered why he
had been so led away by the sentimental glances of An-
gela Fairfax as to make her Angela Fordyce. Neverthe-
less, his will was stronger than hers, his scheme of life
was rounded and complete, and at forty-seven men do
not easily begin to run in new grooves ; they are more
apt to think that younger and more pliable characters
should enter their grooves, and abide therein for the rest
of their days. He did not care for a gay or varied life,
indeed he w^as rather austere in his notions upon such
points, and belonged to the narrower division of that sect
known as Congregationalists.

Angela had found soon that life might be at once very
luxurious, and both intensely dull and bitterly common-
place and vulgar. Such was the life she had sold herself
into ; it was a bondage which did not grow more endur-
able with time, and the presence of her sister, which she
had at first considered merely a matter of form, since
Mabelle could not be left alone out in the cold, presently
became a great necessity to her. There was nothing
vulgar or commonplace about Mabelle. She seemed to
cherish no resentment towards her sister ; she obediently
went and took up her residence in the dull, grand house
where Angela lived with Mr. Fordyce. They never
quarrelled, or rather they had not quarrelled since one
occasion on which Angela, with the dulness of feeling
common to natures like hers, had tried to lead the con-
versation to the subject of the Masseys in general, and

AT RED LEES. 145

of Philip in particular, and then Mabelle had said, her
delicate cheek flushing, and her gentle eyes flashing with
an unusual Are :

. 'Angela, let me tell you that if ever you utter Philip
Massey's name, or that of his sister, to me again, or
whenever you do it, I will leave the room that instant ;
yes, if a hundred people were sitting watching us.*

But Angela had never tempted Mabelle to carry her
threat into execution.

Mabelle had a kind of adoration for Grace Massey,
and what she considered her goodness and generosity in
condoning the past, remaining her friend, and inviting
her to her home. She had already visited more than
once at Red Lees, and loved to go there. Grace was
good to her, Mrs. Massey was uniformly kind, and
Mabelle had the greatest veneration for that simple-
minded yet noble matron, thinking of her as a kind of
Yorkshire Volumnia, but gentle, genial, and christian-
ised. Mr. Massey was fond of her, they were all fond
of her, and in return she loved them dearly. As
Angela's name was mentioned as rarely as possible, and
as indifierently, the friendship continued, sunny and un-
interrupted.

'Since you went out,' pursued Grace, *the postboy
has come up from the town and brought me a letter.*

*A letter! From Ph — from your brother? asked
Mabelle.

* From my brother ? No, child. Why are you always
imagining letters from my brother ? I believe you think
they come in shoals, by every post'

*0h no! But sometimes I think how dreadful it
would be if by any chance he should come home sud-

10

146 MADE OR MARRED.

denly before I had gone. Can you imagine anything
more terrible ?* said Mabelle, sitting up, and looking at
Grace with some excitement.

'Why? What would be likely to happen? What
would you do, goose, under such horrible circum-
stances ?*

* I am sure I should sink into the earth whenever he
looked at me, or rather I should wish that I could,' said
the young lady, while a hot flush spread slowly over her
face.

* Pooh !' said Grace, indifferently, * I didn't know you
felt so strongly on the subject And there is no need.
You are morbid. Now, don't jump up and flee,' she
added, stretching out her large, firm hand, and detaining
Mabelle, who had made a movement as if to leave her.
' My letter was from Thekla.'

* From Thekla ! Oh, how is she ?'

* She is very well, and very happy, and she says that
if I will have my wedding after Christmas, she can and
will come over from Frankfort, with Mr. Reichhardt and
her boy, and be present at it.'

* You will like that, won't you ?'

' I should like it better if it were not so soon, but I
must have Thekla at my wedding, that is very certain,
if I have to be married ever so much sooner than I like ;
so I shall tell Hermann I have decided, but I shall let
him know that it is for his sister's sake, and not for his.'

Mabelle laughed. Grace produced a long, pointed
basket, like a canal boat, containing knitting, and began
to work diligently with the fingers which were never
idle.

* What a little lazy thing you are, Mabelle !' she ex-

AT RED LEES. 147

claimed at last. * I declare, I don't know when or where
you manage to acquire your stores of learning about all
kinds of things. I believe you are much better informed
than I am, really, despite my examinations ; but when
you are here I never see you read.'

* I have too much to do out of doors here, and I am
too happy to read. It is when I am at home that I have
time ; plenty of time now.*

♦Why that " now"? Hadn't you always time?

* Not at first'

« Why, dear ? Tell me.'

* But if I tell you I shall have to talk a great deal
about Angela.*

*Well, tell me about her, then,' was the answer, as
Grace, ceasing her knitting, propped her chin upon her
hand, and looked with a large, steady, happy gaze across
the sea, which kept up its murmur far below. She was
in a pensive yet joyful mood, and half she listened to
Mabelle's words, and half she gave heed to thoughts of
her own.

* At first, when Angela came home, and after I had
got better, I had very little time to myself,' said Mabelle.
' She went out a great deal making calls, you know, and
driving, and shopping, and '

* Showing off — yes, I know.'

' Well, I'm afraid it was. And it was decided that as
I was more than sixteen I was not to go to school any
more, so it really seemed as if my whole time was to be

given up to An I mean to these stupid calls, and

visits, and things, I could not study anything. Angela
said it was so dull to have some one near her "buried in
a book;" it made her nervous to sit in the same- roon^

lO'

145 MADE OR MARRED.

with me while I was reading. I don't know what I
should have done, but Mr. Fordyce really was very kind.
He found out my doleful case by degrees, and insisted
upon my having some time to myself. He gave me a
little room for my own, and said in winter there was
always to be a fire there ; and one day he got me a pass
for the College library — that's where I get my learned
books, Grace — and he subscribed to Mudie's for me for
new ones. I asked him what there was I could do for
him, I felt so very grateful, you know ; and it was kind,
was it not ?*

' Yes, very,' Grace was obliged to own.

* Because Angela grumbled dreadfully. Oh, she does
grumble sometimes, Grace. You will not tell anyone I
said so, but she makes me feel sometimes as if I should
absolutely like to box her ears.'

* Did ever anyone hear of such frightful thoughts? Well ?'
' Mr. Fordyce said he didn't know he had done any-
thing that required payment, but that he never refused a
good offer, and I might read the paper to him sometimes,
and write a few of his letters. So we began with that,
and now we have got beyond the paper, and read very
interesting books sometimes, voyages and travels and
history. The only drawback is that Angela yawns so
dreadfully, and objects to it so very strongly.'

* Why doesn't she put a stop to it ?'

* Because she can't,' replied Mabelle; *Mr. Fordyce
is quite the master.'

She struggled to suppress a convulsive smile, but
looking up, and catching Grace's eye, it would out.
Grace burst into a peal of laughter, in which Mabelle
j[oined-

AT RED LEES. 149

* In other words, your sister has overreached herself,
and has to submit to^Mr. Fordyce, instead of his sub-
mitting to her, as she intended You will excuse my
saying, Mabelle, that I am very glad to hear it.'

Mabelle smiled rather faintly, and at this moment the
sound of a bell warned them that tea was ready at the
farm ; and, accompanied by Doctor Johnson, thought-
fully pacing before them, they repaired to that meal.

CHAPTER XXI.

CONSTERNATION.

Saturday, the day of Hermann's arrival, had come and
gone, and brought him at the appointed time, and Sun-
day morning found him exceedingly happy, and Grace
no less so, in pretending to make little of him, while in
reality she made very much of him. Thus Mabelle
found herself with a portentous amount of solitary time
on her hands, to dispose of as best she could. For-
tunately, at Foulhaven, she was never at a loss for means
to do that ; the sensation of being in a place she liked,
and amongst persons she loved, went a long way towards
constituting the happiness of Mabelle Fairfax.

Accordingly she left Grace and Hermann to their own
devices, while she amused herself after her own manner,
sitting with Mrs. Massey in the painted chamber upstairs,
and listening to the discourse of that lady; sallying forth,
halless and bonnetless, into the garden to gather a bunch
of flowers, or walk about with Doctor Johnson following
or preceding her at a sedate or decent pace; or wandering

iSo MADE OR MAkkED.

out to the cliff, which last was her favourite resort. She
experienced a profound pleasure in the mere fact of
walking over the breezy, undulating downs, and letting
her cotton gown trail over the clean, short, crisp grass.
Each time as she mounted the highest of the ridges, and
the great, shining, glassy sea flashed like a beam of light
upon her eyes, there came the same thrill of joy and
wonder, the same sensation of longing satisfied in broad
and ample measure by something so vast and boundless
that no effort of hers could ever compass its mystery and
hidden meaning ; while the hoarse under-current of the
groundswell, and tlie rhythmic break of the waves on the
shore, never lost its stately music for her ear.

As she sat, or stood, or lay upon the edge of the cliff,
she might have passed for Wordsworth's * Louisa;' every-
thing in nature was a joy to her, and as she watched and
listened the poet's words were fulfilled :

* And beauty, bom of murmuring sound,
Shall pass into her face.'

Mabelle was not a homely maiden to look upon, but
beautiful with a rare, delicate beauty of her own ; and
this beauty which passed into her face during these hours
of converse with nature only added another loveliness to
that which was already there.

Thus she had passed the Saturday, and Sunday came,
and Mabelle, having been to church in the morning with
Mrs. Massey, and passed the afternoon in her favourite
haunt, came to the house in time for tea, and found
Grace looking out for her.

* We have planned an expedition,' said the . latter.
* Are you tired ; or do you feel equal to a good long
walk ?'

CONSTERNATION. 151

* I feel equal to a good long walk,' replied Mabelle,
promptly.

* So do Hermann and I, and we are going to walk
down to the town, and up the steps to the Abbey Church,
go to service there, and then walk home in the gloaming,
if you are equal to it, that is.'

* Oh, delightful — most delightful ! But would not you
and Hermann prefer to go by yourselves ?'

* Hermann and I have had quite enough of each other,
and want some other society.*

Hermann obligingly said he would rather die than
contradict her, and Mabelle, reassured, announced that
nothing could give her greater satisfaction than the pro-
posed expedition.

It was some distance from Red Lees to the old Abbey
Church at* Foulhaven, and every step of the way was
beautiful. They formed a very merry trio as they traversed
the up and down road which led them gradually into the
town, and took their way along the banks of the river
which flowed into the sea, and which here, inland, was
crowded with black hulls of ships sent in for repairs, and
rolling over to one side, stranded high and dry by the
outward-set tide into the narrow, winding street, with the
odd little lanes and alleys leading to the river-side, till
they arrived at the foot of the church-steps, a long, inter-
minable flight of well-worn flags leading up to the top of
the East Cliff", on the highest point of which stood that
ruined fane already spoken of, and just below it, almost
overhanging the sea, the stumpy-looking, ancient Abbey
Church of St Mary's.

They climbed the steps, and strolled through the
churchyard, passed the numberless headstones erected

152 MADE OR MARRED.

to the memory of such and such a one, 'master
mariner.'

* It seems to me,' said Mabelle, * that all the master
mariners who ever lived have been shipwrecked, and died,
and got buried here.'

Then into the church, where the light streamed softly
in on the eastern side, and the homely service was
carried on, and the homely sermon preached afterwards.
The two girls sat oh a bench in the background, near
the door, with Hermann between them ; and Mabelle,
who was next the porch, could see the sea, in a shining
silver expanse, spread beneath and before her, as far as
the eye could reach.

There is something in the quiet beauty of a church
service on a summer Sunday evening in a country place
which is touchmg and pathetic, one hardly knows why.
The three young hearts were perhaps overladen with
happiness — with the joy of living and breathing amidst
so much beauty, and with great, bright hopes for the
future, as young hearts will be. Be that as it may, a
silence and gravity settled over them all, and Mabelle
found her eyes dim with tears once or twice during the
course of the simple, noble liturgy.

The sermon over, they all rose, and the last hymn was
given out. Mabelle felt a strange little shiver as she
opened her book and read, * For those at sea.' What
had made the clergyman choose that hymn, for such an
evening, with the sea outside, like a great, heaving sheet
of glass? Was it simply as a reminder that *in the
midst of life we are in death ' ? or to recall the storms
which had raged in days gone by— to prepare for those
which must rage in days to come, despite the exquisite

CONS TERN A TION. 1 5 3

calmness of to-night? For, thought Mabelle, as the
solemn notes began, was not the churchyard full of the
graves of those who had perished at sea — * master
mariners,' simple seamen, mothers and children who had
drowned together, and been found and picked up, clasped
fast in each other's arms ?

The first verse had been sung ; the last lines of it were
sounding solemnly :

* Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea !'

Suddenly there flashed subtly upon her mind the re-
membrance of Philip. Supposing he were in any peril
by sea or land !

* If it had not been for us,' she thought ; * if he had
never met us, he would have been safe at home in Eng-
land now, at this very moment.' And still the chant
went on, and still she sang, with an eagerness and a
fervour which lent strength to her voice :

* Most Holy Spirit, who didst brood
Upon the chaos dark and rude,
And bid its angry tumult cease,
And give, for wild confusion, peace—

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

P'or those in peril on the sea !'

It was with a heart full to overflowing of a reasonless
fear and excitement that, when the hymn was over, she
dropped upon her knees, and covered up her face with
her hands, while the benediction was being given.

As they went home they were much more silent than
they had been when they came. Hermann drew Grace's
arm through his to help her up a steep hill, and Grace,
as if to say to Mabelle, * You, too ! you shall not be
left out in the cold,' clasped her friend's hand in hers.

154 MADE OR MARRED.

The gloaming was falling, the sky grew grey, and the
stars began to peep forth.

Although they had reached the top of the hill, they
still continued to walk, hand in hand, and arm in arm,
along the upland road, and through the dewy fields,
slowly and silently, as if they would have kept the precious
moments by them a little longer.

* Ah,* at last said Grace, with a sigh, * close at home
now ! And here is mother beside the gate, and father
with her, looking out for us.'

They approached the gate, beside which, indeed, stood
Mrs. Massey, her hand resting on the shoulder of a man
who, leaning upon the gate, looked up to her. It was
Grace who, suddenly snatching her hand from her lover's
arm, made a bound forward, exclaiming in a stifled voice,
between laughing and crying :

' Philip ! Oh, Philip r

Mabelle stood still on the instant, feeling herself sud-
denly cold as ice, fast as if rooted there by magic, while her
heart beat almost to suffocation. What a fearful, terrible
contretemps 1 What an unfortunate wretch she was, to
be doomed thus to be here, poisoning Philip's meeting
with his loved ones !

There was a scene of wild, incoherent gladness going
on by the gate. Grace, wild with her joy, questioning,
aud having no time to be answered ; first hugging
Philip to her heart, and then pushing him away, that she
might the better look at him and see how much he was
changed.

* You are changed ! I am certain you have grown ever
so much bigger and broader, and so brown. Oh, I am
proud of you ! I wish you had been at church with us

Consternation. 155

to-night. How everyone would have stared at you ! Oh,
I can hardly believe it — it is too joyful I*

' Don't you think we are almost de trop here, Mabelle ?*
at this moment said Hermann aside to her. He spoke
kindly, for he had not failed to see her look of utter con-
sternation, and even fright, and Grace had made him
partially acquainted with the facts of the case, so that
he thought in his good-natured soul, * Poor little thing !
Deuced uncomfortable for her, and I dare say she'd like
to get out of it'

*Not you,' replied Mabelle, in a rapid, distressed
whisper ; 'but for me! Oh, Hermann, what am I to do ?
Help me to get out of the way I I cannot intrude my-
self upon them again to-night.'

She thought she perceived a chance of escape, and
was going to slip by, between Grace and Mrs. Massey \
but Grace, in the midst of her transports, noticed this
attempt at a flank movement, and caught Mabelle by the
hand.

* Where are you going ?' she cried * Come here I
Philip, this is Mabelle Fairfax. I don't expect you would
have known her, would you ?'

With which she, as it were, thrust forward the terrified
Mabelle, who looked up with a kind of desperate courage,
and beheld — Philip Massey, indeed, but not the Philip
Massey of old days, whom she had always liked, with a
feeling of sisterly regard and a sense of equality which
had left no room for embarrassment. This Philip Massey
was quite different, and in contact with him she felt her-
self sink into the merest child. He was so grave and
self-contained, so entirely a man, so utterly removed from
boyhood and boyhood's follies, that she was startled, be-

u

156 MADE OR MARRED.

wildered Not a day had passed since that fatal morning
three years ago, on which Mabelle had not thought of
Philip, and the wrong her sister had done him, but she
had always thought of him as something quite different
from this. She could not imagine this man madly in
love with Angela, but there was something in hrs air
which made her think, * It would be dreadful to be in
his way when he did not want one ! I could not bear it,
and I must get away as soon as I can. To think that
Angela jilted him for Mr. Fordyce ! Oh, dear !*

All this had passed through her mind as it were in a
parenthesis, and now she heard Philip saying :

* This Mabelle Fairfax I Yes, I should have recognised
her anywhere.'

He took her trembling, nerveless hand, spoke two or
three words, asked her how she was, glanced with a sort
of amused surprise at her evident embarrassment, at her
blank face and wide-open eyes, and then, as if he had
hardly seen her, turned to Hermann Berghaus with such
a hearty greeting, thought Mabelle, who, in effecting her
escape, did not fail to see Philip's hand resting on Her-
mann's shoulder, the prolonged, close handclasp, the
familiarly affectionate, * Well, old fellow, I am right glad
we are to be brothers after all !' She saw Grace come
close up to them, and she stole away to her room with
uncontrollable tears running down her face.

'I can never stay here; I cannot bear it,' she said
again, within herself. * I cannot bear him to look at me
as if he did not see me, and yet I can't expect him to
look at me in any other way, ^or I must be a very dis-
agreeable spectacle for him.'

REPARATION REQUIRED. 157

CHAPTER XXII.

REPARATION REQUIRED.

It was Tuesday afternoon, two days after Philip's sudden
appearance at his father's house. Grace was wandering
from one parlour to another, looking into them, shaking
her head, and then looking out again.

' Where can the child have hidden herself? She must
be in her own room,' speculated Miss Massey, as she took
her way up the broad, shallow, oaken staircase, and, going
along a whitewashed passage, knocked at a bedroom
door.

* Come in !' cried Mabelle's voice, and Grace entered.
Her visitor was seated at a table which stood in one of
the windows. She had writing materials before her, and
appeared to be engaged in the composition of a letter.

* What are you doing ?' demanded Grace. ' Why are
you shut up here ? I have been looking for you every-
where.'

' I am writing a letter, which I want to go by to-night's
post when the boy goes to the town,' said Mabelle, look-
ing rather embarrassed.

* Indeed ! Well, make your letter as short as you can,
for I have a lot of Jhings I want to say to you. We are
talking about a picnic'

* Yes ; I shall have done in a moment. I never could
understand " Bradshaw," you know, and that is why I
have been so long about it.*

* " Bradshaw " ?' echoed Grace, with a sudden look of
suspicion. * What do you want with " Bradshaw " ?'
' To tell Angela by what train to expect me, of course,'

158 MADE OR MARRED.

replied Mabelle nervously, and unsuccessfully essaying a
smile of indifference.

' Why, in the name of common sense, should Angela
want to know the train a month beforehand ?'

* A month ! Oh, but I must go the day after to-
morrow,' was the answer, in a would-be matter-of-course
tone.

* Nonsense ! You are to stay another month.^
'Indeed, Grace, I cannot I have been away quite

long enough as it is. I am sure they would not like me
to remain so much longer.'

' Who said they would ? — but 7ve should like you to do
so, and that is the principal thing,' retorted Grace, un-
scrupulously. *Now, don't be silly, Mabelle. It is
utterly impossible for you to go. Give me that letter,
and let me tear it up.'

She stretched out her hand towards it, but Mabelle's
little fingers closed upon it like a vice, and there was any-
thing but a yielding expression in her eyes.

* I know for a fact,' continued Grace, ' that Mr. Fordyce
told you to go away and enjoy yourself as long as you
liked, for you needed a change. You wrote and told me
so yourself Will you deny your own despatches, as the
Opposition say the Government do ?'

* It is quite different now,' said Mabelle, hastily. * And
please do not hinder me, Grace, or my letter will not be
ready for Tom to take it down.'

' I am sure I hope it won't, so far as I am concerned
You offer me a premium to stay and interrupt you. Why
do you wish to go ? Why this sudden abhorrence of us
and our society ? You said nothing about it before.'

Mabelle maintained an embarrassed silence, and Grace

REPARATION REQUIRED. 159

continued: *You know perfectly well that we all wish
you to stay/

*Not all,' escaped from Mabelle's lips involuntarily,
and then she bit them with vexation, and, folding up her
letter, said :

' For several reasons, I must go on Thursday, and you
will be very unkind and very unfriendly if you try to
prevent it/

*Now I know,' said Grace, triumphantly. *I might
have guessed before. It is because you want to run
away from Philip, you absurd little creature.'

' No, I don't want to run away from him,' answered
Mabelle, miserable in the consciousness of a burning
face, which would not return to its normal hue.

' Do you mean to say that if Philip had not returned
you would have treated me in this way ?'

' Treated you ! How unkind you are, Grace. It is
absurd to pretend that he can Uke me to be here, and
whatever you say I will not stay. I should be miserable
if I did.'

*Upon my word! A compliment to us and our
hospitality ! Pray what difference do you suppose it can
possibly make to Philip ?'

* I cannot imagine what reason you can have for
raking up the past in this way when all I wish is to
have it forgotten. You cannot forget that my sister
treated your brother shamefully, and he cannot have for-
gotten it either. I have never for a day forgotten it.
The very name of Fairfax must be abominable in his
ears, and the sight of me must be hateful to him. It
must completely spoil his pleasure in being at home
again to be confronted by me at every turn. It is an

i6o MADE OR MARRED.

idea that I cannot bear, and I am going home ; my mind
is made up.'

* And what if I told you that you were quite mistaken ;
that Philip had long ago got over that treatment of him
by your sister, and that he would as soon see you here as
any other girl ?*

' You might tell me so, but you know very well that
he would not. It is of no use to talk in that way,'

* You are quite decided ?'
' Quite.'

' Then I shall have to be very cross with you. Of
course I can't hold you here by ropes and cords, but you
need not suppose that you can treat me in this way with
impunity. I am of a most revengeful temperament.
Send your letter; oh, by all means, send your letter.
There are ever so many more on the hall-table waiting
to go. Put yours with them, my dear, and let it go.
But I shall punish you for your unfriendliness ; yes, this
very afternoon, too.'

Miss Massey's eyes flashed as she rose, drawing herself
up, and looking rather superbly down upon her slighter
and more gentle friend.

* Oh, Grace,' began Mabelle, to whose eyes the tears
had rushed, * how '

But Grace had swept out of the room, leaving behind
her a general impression of dark eyes flashing wrathfuUy,
of a heightened colour, and a malign, disdainful smile,

Mabelle finished addressing her letter, stamped it, and
said to herself, in a reflective undertone :

' It is of no use. I am a little fool, I suppose, since
he never seems to notice me even ; but if he were not
reminded of something disagreeable by the very sight ot

REPARATION REQUIRED. i6i

me he would, speak, I am sure. He is not hard-hearted,
and he has a kind word for everybody but me. It is very
fine for Grace to talk ; he would say anything to please
her. Is it likely he would own that he wished I would
get away and leave them alone ? Grace will have to be
angry if she likes, but my letter must go.'

With this she found herself, to her own great surprise
and displeasure, crying; but, quickly drying her tears,
took up her broad hat and her letter and went down-
stairs.

As Grace had said, there were several letters on the
table, and Mabelle laid hers with the rest, and then took
her way out of doors, through the garden, and across the
fields to the cliff, there to sit and seek relief to her
troubled feelings.

* I really am an unlucky girl,' she meditated. • Why
was I here when he came home ? I have been in a fever
ever since. He must think me a horrid little intrusive
thing to be in the way at such a time ; and he looks at
me so coldly and absently, as if he did not see me — ^just
as he might look at a fly on the window, or a spider on
the wall He has evidently quite forgotten how very
kind he used once to be, but I have not ; but even if I
do deserve it, I can't bear it. Grace might be more con-
siderate. When she comes and towers over me like she
did just now, and flashes her great eyes upon me, she
looks so exactly like him that I could almost—'

A rush past her of some moving body drew her atten-
tion to the form of Doctor Johnson, who, with an
unseemly haste very rare with him, whirled by, arresting
himself by a backward spring just in time to save himself
from being dashed over the clifif to certain death, and

i6l . MADE OR MARRED.

then transferred his attentions to her as if in a parox>sm
of affection.

* My dear Doctor Johnson !' she had begun, in the
tone of one who would reason with an impetuous person,
* be a little less violent, or '

* Let him alone ! He'll take care not to risk his pre-
cious life. He is like his immortal namesake, too fond
of the good things of the kitchen to prematurely cut
himself off in his enjoyment of them,' said a voice behind
her— a voice which caused Mabelle to start violently and
make a palpable movement of dismay as she beheld
Philip, alone, except for Doctor Johnson, standing above
her, and looking down from what seemed to Mabelle an
immense height, for he stood upon a little knoll of grass,
and she was sitting in the bottom of a small hollow be-
tween two ridges.

* Do I disturb you ?' he asked, throwing away his
cigar, and — was it possible ? — seating himself beside her.

* N — no ; I am not going to stay here long,' answered
Mabelle, inwardly wondering when adversity would cease
to persecute her; wondering too, still more, what strange
chance had sent Philip there.

* Not stay long ! You have only just come, have
you ?' he asked, looking at her intently, and with imper-
turbable gravity.

* No — well— about '

' About three minutes,' he interposed ; * because I saw
you go while Grace was shaking me out of my chair and
telling me to go after you.'

' Telling you to come after me !' ejaculated Mabelle,
on whose horrified mind the truth now burst in its
entirety.

REPARATION REQUIRED. 163

Grace had indeed put her scheme of revenge into
operation with the promptitude and skill of a great
general.

' Yes, she sent me after you/ said Philip, tranquilly,
while he rested his chin on one hand, and stroked back
the ears of Doctor Johnson with the other, a process
which caused that intelligent animal to put forth his
tongue farther than ever, and to grin a hideous grin of
ineffable satisfaction.

* She said she had quarrelled with you, and that you
had been unkind — no, you had been " very nasty," that
was the form of expression she used.'

* Oh, dear T was all Mabelle could ejaculate.

* She says you want to go away,' he continued ; and if
he had taken no notice of her before, Mabelle could no
longer accuse him of maintaining that line of conduct.
He was observing her intently, and the fact did not tend
to reassure her either in mind or manner.

Mab^e had worried herself by brooding over the
situation until she could no longer see it in its proper
light or proportions. Her conscience was morbidly sen-
sitive, and Grace did not know, could not guess, the real
agony she was inflicting upon the girl by her jesting piece
of vengeance.

*Yes — no. I don't want to go, but I am afraid I
must.'

* But why ? Grace says that a few days ago you
seemed pleased at tHe prospect of staying,' said Philip,
with a half-smile in his eyes as he saw the uncontrollable
flush rising to Mabelle's face at his question.

She made no answer, but sat gazing in an embarrassed
manner across the sea. How could she say to him, * It

II — 2

l64 MADE OR MARRED.

is because you have come home that I want to go '? The
idea of his guessing such a thing made her feel hot all
over, for to Mabelle's morbid susceptibility it appeared
as if Philip must be just as sensitive as herself on the
subject of her sister's conduct three years ago. Had he
not left England to escape from the possibility of seeing
or being near Angela? She totally forgot that that
escape might have been an effectual one, and that Philip
might now be free, delivered from the possibility of any
keen feeling upon the subject. To her it was a sore spot
— a haunting memory of shame and misery, and rather
than name it to Philip she would even recall her resolu-
tion, and remain at Red Lees at whatever cost of misery
to herself.

Her feelings of utter dismay may, therefore, be more
easily imagined than described when Philip went on, in
the calm, self-contained manner of one who is pursuing
an interesting but not very exciting inquiry :

* You don't speak. I begin to think that Grace was
right after all, and that it is I who am the unhappy cause
of your determination to leave us. Can it be so really,
Miss Fairfax?'

* Oh, how could Grace ' began Mabelle, and then,

overwhelmed by the dreadfulness of the position, and
quite losing her head in her confusion, she hastily sprang
up, and was about to fly without a word.

But before she could absolutely rise Philip had inter-
posed, and the touch of his hand on her arm checked
her suddenly.

' Do, please, let me go !' she exclaimed, with a mixture
of dignity and distress in her voice and attitude. * It is
really more than a jest ; it is not '

kEP A Ration reqiIired. {^

* Evidently it is more than a jest,' he replied, rather
curtly. * At least, it is evident that you consider it so.
Grace didn't, though. Now, Miss Fairfax, listen !'

Mabelle turned involuntarily, and found him looking
at her with an authoritative expression which made her
pause, whether she would or not.

*You tacitly own that I have something to do with
your wish to cut short your visit here,' he went on, and
his deep tones thrilled through poor Mabelle, while the
undercurrent of longing to go, to get away, to escape
from somethings she knew not what, grew stronger every
instant. *And I think I have a right to know your
reason. What have I done to offend you ? I am sure I
have sinned unconsciously, and one word from you shall
produce a change — I will not offend again.'

*0h, Mr. Massey, how can you speak so cruelly?
How can you turn me into ridicule in such a manner ?'
she cried, suddenly sitting down again in the little
hollow, and covering her face with her hands. Doctor
Johnson, full of an intelligent and sympathetic desire to
console her, put his paws on her lap, and craned his
neck to lick her hands, while Philip exclaimed, blankly :

* Turn you into ridicule ! I have not the faintest idea
what you mean.'

* You must know perfectly well my reason for wishing
to go,' said Mabelle, looking up at him with something
like indignation at what appeared to her the wilful pro-
longation of an ordeal which was becoming unendurable
to her.

' On my soul and honour, all I know is that Grace
came to me in a state of much agitation, bade me put
down my book and not be so lazy, and when I asked

l66 MADE OR MARRED.

her in what way I could best show her my activity in a
pleasing manner, she pointed out of the window to your
figure, and said, " IVe had a quarrel with her, and she
has been very nasty, and you are at the bottom of it.
She says she wants to go away. Go and make it up
with her." "With all my heart," I replied, "if you will
tell me what I have done to offend her?" "I don't
know," she said, " but if you will go after her, she will
tell you, I am sure, and you must make it up with her."
I am Grace's slave, and yours, so I came. Now, Miss
Fairfax, will you explain ? Jfoiv have I offended you ?'

* It is not that you offend me, but I am sure I offend
you^^ said Mabelle, looking up with a face literally aflame,
and confronting the calm, bronzed face, and the steady
dark eyes of Philip fixed earnestly upon her own. A
look of surprise was dawning in them as he said :

' Offend mef I am afraid I am still in the dark. How
could you by any possibility offend me ? You T

*I mean that even to look at me must arouse painful
recollections in your mind. It cannot be pleasant to
you for me to be here, after — oh, you cannot have for-
gotten the last time we met — and — and — Angela !'

The word was out, and a dead silence . supervened,
during which, after one flash from Philip's eyes, his
countenance scarcely changed. He looked thoughtfully
at the head of Doctor Johnson, while he still gently
stroked back the ears of that companionable friend of
man; and the movement of his hand maintained its
regular, unexcited rhythm. Mabelle sat looking at him
breathlessly, and doubt, fear, bewilderment, succeeded
one another in a mad chase through her mind, as she
saw, first that dubious flash of his eyes, then the still

REPARA TION REQ UIRED. 1 67.

more dubious half smile which curved his lips, and then
the unshakable gravity, without a trace of sternness or
displeasure;, which followed. He did not speak; he
seemed to be lost in reflection, till at last, looking up to
Mabelle, after what appeared to her a week of agitated
emotion, she found his eyes as calm, as steady, as serene
as those of a child.

' Are you angry ?' she murmured, timidly touching his
arm. * I did not mean to say that ; but, oh ! I have never
forgotten it, and now I believe you have.^

Philip arrested the hand, and held it in his own, as he
said:

* Did you think me so vindictive, Mabelle ?'

* You had been so dreadfully injured !' she said.

* You really believe me so vindictive,' he repeated, and
though he was amused he found he could not smile. * I
remember you suffered dreadfully at that time. You were
punished for a sin which you could not have committed
if your life had depended upon it. You were ill, and
before it all came out you had endured tortures. I re-
member ! Grace wrote me about it at the time, but at
the time, instead of pitying you, I was, I am afraid,
hardening my heart, and cursing your sister.'

A little quick sob broke from Mabelle as she tried to
draw her hand away, but could not, and Philip went on ;

* And it is you who suffer still. You are so constituted,
I suppose. All the conscientiousness df your family was
bestowed upon you, and you have too much of it, as
others have too little. And you imagined me nursing
anger in my heart against you ; cherishing envy, hatred,
and malice all these years ! I must say you have as
nearly as possible succeeded in offending me. It shows

t68 MADE OR MARRED.

me that I must have behaved abominably in my first
moments of disillusionism for you to have thought thus
of me.'

Of course, by this time Mabelle was dissolved in tears,
with Doctor Johnson by her side in an attitude of pro-
found melancholy, his head and ears drooping with a
dolorous curve. She managed to say, however :

* And you mean that you have quite, quite got over —
forgiven, I mean that '

*I never loved your sister for one moment, after I
found she had lied to me,' he said, in a voice whose
hardness dried Mabelle's tears like magic 'On the
contrary, I hated her with an unreasoning, contemptuous
hatred — a bad feeling — for, after all, she was made so.
What enraged me was that I could not, with my love for
her, shake off its effects upon my mind and character.
That was impossible. My love for her had made me
soft, I suppose, and her deceit made me hard ; and hard
and rough I shall remain all my life in consequence. No
doubt you know. Miss Fairfax, that there is said to be a
tide in the affairs of men — and there is also, generally
speaking, a time when the stuff of which a man is made
hardens into shape, and no after events can do more
than somewhat modify the comers and outlines of that
shape. Nothing short of smashing him to pieces —
making an end of him — can do more. When your sister
jilted me — forgive the word — I am apt to speak rather
too plainly for the ears of young ladies, I know '

* But not for those of women who respect the truth,'
interposed Mabelle decisively, though in a smothered
voice.

* No ; that is well said. You are like Grace, I see ;

REPARATION REQUIRED. 169

and prefer straightforward expressions. Well, when your
sister jilted me, the stuff I was made of took a very
rough, marred sort of shape ; it got a twist, and nothing
can ever make it straight again, or turn me into an agree-
able, or gentle, amiable character. But it did not make
of me an utter brute, as you seem to think. It did not
deprive me of the power to distinguish between your
sister, to whom truth was a stranger, and you, to whom
she was the dearest friend '

* Oh, if you could ever forgive me ! I — I have thought
too much of it. It was all the world to me — I hated it
so — what she did ; and I fancied it was all the world to
you, too.'

* Well, you owe me some little reparation, don't you
think, for having fancied such things of me ?*

' Indeed I do ; and anything — any single thing you
can name '

* Then stay here until Grace sets you free to go home,
and let me endeavour to show myself to you in a more
favourable light than hitherto.'

' Very well. I must appear very foolish to you, and
oh, my letter to Angela ! It will have gone.'

* It has gone just as far as my coat-pocket,' he answered,
producing it, and Mabelle made a snatch at it.

* No, no !' said Philip. * Suppose we tear it up and
scatter it to the ocean wave. I'll do it, and you sit
stilL'

Mabelle and Doctor Johnson watched him tear the
letter into tiny fragments, and scatter them in a little
shower over the cliff.

* So is dispersed the absurd idea of your going away
from Red Lees yet,' said he composedly, while she sat

I70 MADE OR MARRED.

with her hands folded before her, not feeling equal to
opening a conversation, till Philip said : ,

* And how is she — Angela, I mean — your sister, Mrs.
Fordyce ?'

* She is very well, thank you.'
' And happy ?'

* Not exactly.'
' Miserable ?'

' Oh no !'

*What an odd state of mind. And you live with
her?'
' Yes.'

* Do you like it ?'

* No.'

* Why ?'

* 0,ur — I don't think our tastes agree.'

* You quarrel, perhaps ?'

* No, never.'

* You each go on your own way, and never speak to
each other ?'

* Not at all. We see a great deal of each other. We
get on somehow.'

' And go out a great deal, I suppose, and have a lot
of visiting ? They say that is a wonderful help when one
is dull at home*'

' But we don't go out much. Mr. Fordyce does not
like it. We are very, very quiet.'

* Then, perhaps, you are rather dull ?'
* * Dreadfully dull.'

*You must be. And you find it less dull here, do
you ?'

* I never find it dull at all here.'

kEpARATiOH REQUIRED. 17 1

* Yet you were ready, and even anxious, to go back to
that dull place because you thought '

* Oh, don't, please !'

* Well, I won't. Where does your sister live ? I mean
in which part of Irkford ?'

* Her house is called Stonefield, in Queen's Park'

* Oh ! They are very grand houses about there.'

* Very big,' said Mabelle, dubiously.

*Big, yes. I remember admiring them very much
once. But what I was going to say was, do you do as
you please at Stonefield, and have your own visitors, and
all that?'

* I know so few other girls, you see, and Mr. Fordyce
does not care much to have many young people about.
They disturb him.'

* How cheering for you ! He would hardly look upon
me, though, in the light of a young person, would he ?*

' You !'

* I — even I ! You seem horrified at the idea.'

* Do you mean you would like to come and call upon
Mr. Fordyce?'

* I should like to come and call upon you, and then
you could introduce me to Mr. Fordyce. Would Mrs.
Fordyce object much, do you think ?'

* N — no. I don't know. I don't think so.'

* Then what are your objections ? Perhaps you would
object ?'

*No. I don't know why you should not call, if —
if '

* If I think I can stand it, you mean. I almost think
I. can, after a little while — when I have got accustomed
to it, you know. But we will leave that an open question

tn ' MADE OR MARRED.

for the present Why are you getting up ? There is no
need to go, and it is delicious here.'

* But we must go. Don't you hear that bell ringing ?
It means that tea has been waiting ever so long.'

* What an awful idea ! Well, stop one moment, Ma-
belle — may I call you Mabelle ?'

* Yes, if you wish to.'

* I do. It reminds me of the days when I carried
your books for you to the High School. Don't go so fast.
Remember, you owe me some reparation '

* It seems to me that you want a great deal of repara-
tion,' said Mabelle, feeling almost at home with Philip at
last — almost as she had done in those days gone by,
*when he had carried her books.' 'What is the next
piece of reparation ?' she inquired.

* Only this. We shall go out for a walk after tea, Grace
and I. She wants some consolation now that Hermann
has departed. You must promise not to have a bad
headache immediately we propose setting out, like you
had last night.'

* Oh, if that is all, I promise,' said Mabelle, laughing, as
they went slowly towards the house ; laughing again at the.
disconsolate attitude of Doctor Johnson, who had heard
the tea-bell, and was now seated in the field half-way
home, anxiously waiting for them to come — for he resem-
bled his immortal namesake in nothing more strongly than
his devotion to a small cup of the most agreeable of liquids.

In due time they arrived at Red Lees, entered the
hall, and were met by Grace.

* Well ?' she asked.

*Well,' said her brother, *I have done your errand,
^abelle will slay '

REPARATION REQUIRED. 173

*A month, since you make a point of it,' said
Mabelle.

* I am sorry to find that you have so soon forgotten
your promise,' said Philip. ' Till you let her go home,
Grace ; that was what we agreed upon.'

* And the only proper agreement, after what has hap-
pened,' said Grace, looking from one to the other of
them. * Well,' she added, abruptly, * come into the par-
lour. Father and mother have almost finished tea.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

LAST DAYS.

How those four weeks glided by which Mabelle had
consented to stay at Red Lees none of the three quite
knew. All they did know was that the days were liter-
ally as happy as they were long ; and if any one of them
had been asked, he or she would probably have owned
to an impression that at Foulhaven the said days were
longer and sunnier, the hours more golden, than any-
where else in the world.

If Philip was, as Mabelle accused him of being, some-
what exacting in the matter of reparation, he was, on
the other hand, equally assiduous in his efforts to make
it manifest to her how entirely she had mistaken him ;
and he succeeded in the attempt, as of course it was
certain that he must During a month's holiday and
idleness there was ample opportunity for him to give this
kind of enlightenment, particularly to one who was so
willing to be enlightened as Mabelle.

Philip had been told by the head of his firm to take as

174 MADE OR MARRED.

long a holiday as he liked, for that he had earned it ;
and though he had declared at first on his return that he
would be lost without his work, he very soon succeeded
in getting quite accustomed to idleness. Certainly, every
circumstance, all his surroundings, just then offered as it
were a premium to idleness. The luxurious summer
weather; the society of the two girls, one of whom at least
surrounded him with every form of petting and love and
indulgence, in her joy at having him back again, and her
pride in his cleverness and capacity. For a letter had
come from Mr. Starkie to Mr. Massey the elder concern-
ing his son, and what he had done, which letter the grati-
fied father had not been able to forbear reading aloud to
the womenkind, and on hearing which Mrs. Massey had
wiped her eyes, and Grace had danced for joy and prayed
that the letter might be given to her for an heirloom ;
while a third lady had sat in the background, with down-
bent head and glowing face, biting her lips, and feeling
her heart beat wildly.

Upon this scene the object of it had entered, and in-
quired what was the matter. Being presented with the
letter, he had read it, while all eyes were fixed upon him,
and looking up, with a flush upon his face, had beheld all
those eyes, and breaking into a somewhat embarrassed
laugh, had kissed his mother, saying :

* Flummery ! We always said there was no one like
old Starkie for putting the paint on thick.'

* It's a kind of paint that I like to see laid on thick,'
retorted Grace, capturing the letter, which went to repose
in her archives ; and ever after she made more of Philip
than ever; nothing was too good, or indeed good enough
for him, and she went near to kill him with kindness. .

LAST DAYS. i;5

But, as has been said, he took very kindly to it. The
man who had been so restless and so untiringly energetic;
who had worked so hard amongst what Mr. Starkie desig-
nated the inconceivable hardships of a desolate land scarce
trodden by other civilised foot than his own — like Robin-
son Crusoe, Grace said — whose frame had been made
hardier by his hardy life; who had been content to sleep
on a matting spread on the ground, or sometimes on the
ground itself, * under the beautiful stars ;' and who had
worked with his hands as hard as the commonest navvy
under his orders, now reconciled himself with the utm.^st
affability to the dolcefar niente of a summer holiday, to
aimless strolls over the cliffs with Doctor Johnson and
one or both of the girls, or to lying stretched out upon
the top of the said cliif, while one of the young ladies
read Browning or Tennyson, or whatsoever other bard
happened to be most in favour at the moment ; to sitting
by moonlight in the scented garden, and talking the
veriest nonsense in the shape of * chaff' with Grace, and
sometimes Mabelle, which it can enter into the heart of
man to conceive; to long jog-trot drives in the pony-
phaeton (always with Doctor Johnson and the girls) over
the breezy roads, to distant woods, or to some of the
famous country seats with which the neighbourhood
abounded.

These last expeditions were very pleasant. Philip
drove, and Grace and Mabelle took it in turns to sit
beside him, while Doctor Johnson shared the back seat
with whichever of the young ladies occupied it. They
were happy hours which were passed in this manner,
while Philip, when hard pressed, would relate some of
his experience of the * inconceivable hardships ' which,

176 MADE OR MARRED.

he said, he feared were going to become historical in his
family ; and his sister listened, and did the questioning
with that glance from her dark eyes which spoke of a
love like that which Clara van Artevelde felt for her
Philip when she said :

' I've loved him much, and quarrelled with him oft,
And all our loves and quarrels past are links
To bind us closer.'

And Mabelle listened too, the more, perhaps, in that she
said the less.

Grace teased Philip on his newly-discovered capacity
for laziness, and he said that man was celebrated for
adapting himself to all circumstances.

* Even adverse ones,' suggested Grace.

* Even adverse ones, my dear, such as the present,' he
answered.

Sometimes Mabelle speculated upon Philip's rough
analysis of his own character, which he had given her
that day on the cliff. Nothing, he had said, could make
him otherwise than rough and hard. Rough he was,,
perhaps, occasionally — rough, that is, in expression,
rough in the sense that in a very refined circle his
manners would have been found wanting in polish, his
bow in elegance, and his compliments— wanting altogether
as a rule. But hard — Mabelle could discover no hard-
ness for a long time. She thought she had never seen
any man whose manner and whole conduct towards
mother and sister was so good and so satisfactory as that
of Philip Massey.

If he had certain old-fashioned ideas as to the sphere
of a woman's usefulness, and the desirability of cultivat-
ing her culinary and household capacities, it was assuredly

LAST DAYS. m

not because he imagined she could not worthily take
her share in other things — that was evident from topics
which he discussed with Grace and his mother, and the
weight he gave to their opinion.

Once, when a lady with very advanced views on the
subject of woman's sphere had had an argument with
Philip, and discovered what she considered his great and
lamentable darkness upon some important points, she
suggested to Grace that man's wish for women to be
accomplished cooks and housemaids — so she expressed
it— covered an abyss of selfishness not to be measured
by ordinary standards.

* Indeed !' retorted the indignant Grace. * You think
Philip is fond of eating, and would rather I could cook
well for him than anything else. I can tell you that he
would rather eat dry bread than see his mother or me
boil him a potato, if we were tired, or if it were incon-
venient — and I have seen him do it ; and seen him make
tea and toast for me with his own hands, when I was ill
at Irkford, because I didn't like what the servant of the
house had made. If that is an " abyss of selfishness," I
like selfishness.'

Assuredly, thought Mabelle, these were not the traits
of a hard character. Only, once, when his father was
relating something concerning a woman, one of his
tenants, who had lost her child, partly through her own
carelessness, and had added, * She married her husband
for his position ; there was a young fellow whose heart
she nearly broke four years ago,' Philip had said, with
what seemed to Mabelle a very cynical laugh :

* It is a good thing the child did die. Such women
ore not fit to be mothers.*

12

17S MADK OR MARRED.

She stole a glance at him, and saw in his eyes what he
meant by saying his disaster had * hardened ' him.

Mabelle was rather sad that day, for in two days more
she was to go back to Irkford. Angela had written some
very pettish letters, in which she upbraided Mabelle for
her selfishness, adding that if she did not come home
soon, she, Angela, would have to come to Foulhaven
and take lodgings there. These letters Mabelle showed
to Grace, and the perfidious Grace had revealed tlieir
tenor to Philip, whose comment had been :

* Good Lord ! Does she think she can keep Mabelle
for ever tied to her apron strings? What will she do
when the child marries ?'

* It will depend very much on whom the child marries,'
his sister had gravely answered, as she fixed her eyes
upon him, but found he was not looking at her. When
at last he did meet her eyes, Grace laughed, and Philip
laughed too; upon which Miss Massey called him a
goose, and went away looking very well satisfied with
herself, and him, and the world in general.

The day came on the morrow of which Mabelle was
to go to Irkford. She and Philip and Grace had planned
a last excursion with Doctor Johnson in the pony car-
riage, to some fine old woods, from which they could
descend to the shore, and picnic under some huge cliffs
— an almost unknown, untrodden region, which Mabelle
had long had a yearning to visit.

It was September, yet the heat was great — almost
sultry ; there was a dusky haze over sea and sky when
the three would-be excursionists met at breakfast. Their
elders had finished long ago, for I do not suppose any-
one will attempt to dispute the fact that the present

LAST DAYS. 179

generation, as a whole, breakfast later than the one
immediately preceding them. Mr. Massey had been off
in his fields by half-past seven, and Mrs. Massey was at
this moment in the kitchen, not exactly * eating bread
and honey,' but superintending her handmaids in the
preparation of something which at the evening meal
should far surpass in excellence any bread and honey
that ever passed mortal lips.

* Letters !' said Philip, strolling in last, as he simul-
taneously kissed his sister and took up a blue envelope
addressed to him.

* Good-morning, Mabelle,' he added, for Grace, as well
as he, had discovered that the * Miss Fairfax ' sounded
unnatural, and Philip had adapted himself to the cir-
cumstance which required him to call Miss Fairfax
* Mabelle,' while Mabelle adapted herself to the un-
comfortable method of not calling Philip anything but
*you.'

He read his letter,"^ while Grace began to lament the
necessity for Mabelle's early departure the following
morning, and was expressing the wish that she had not
so long a journey to make alone, when Philip, laying
down his letter, and helping himself to an egg, observed
in a well-feigned matter-of-course accent :

* I shall have to go to Irkford myself immediately, so
I may as well go to-morrow as the day after, and then
Mabelle will have an escort.'

Grace looked swiftly at him, while Mabelle's face
flushed, and the former said :

* Really ! If you could manage to go together, it
w^ould be very nice. What calls you to Irkford, Philip ?'

* A letter from Mr. Starkie. I've been expecting it, to

12 — 2

i8o MADE OR MARRED.

tell the truth, for some days. They are establishing a
branch concern at Bradford, and I had a hint that most
likely the management would be offered to me ; so that
the letter is not exactly a surprise ; but I know Mabelle
likes to have as little to do with me as possible, so I
thought I would not make her unhappy with the idea of
my travelling with her unless it was absolutely neces-
sary.'

* What do you mean ?' began Mabelle, but Grace in-
terrupted :

*Why, Philip, you must be congratulated, mustn't
you ? Isn't it a very good thing ?'

* It will be by no means a bad thing, and it is very
quick promotion.'

* Ah, but, then, you have gone through " the incon-
ceivable hardships," etc'

* And Bradford may be a very dull place,' he added.

* Oh, the idea of thinking of that ! Why don't you
congratulate him, Mabelle? Don't you see that he is
waiting for you to do it ?'

* Is he ? I am sure I do congratulate you very much.
I am very glad*

* If you are pleased, I am so glad, though it seems to
require a great effort on your part to make the necessary
speech for the occasion,' said Philip, unkindly. * But,
considering the journey to-morrow, I will say no more
about it'

Mabelle could not answer the teasing remarks of Philip
with her wonted clever little thrusts in return. She felt
an uncomfortable sensation of groping in the dark. She
wished that Grace would not keep looking at her so
earnestly ; that Philip would not persist in talking about

LAST DAYS. i8i

the journey to-morrow. Above all, she wished, and yet
did not wish, that that dreadful journey were safely over.
Very soon after breakfast the pony- carriage came
round, and Doctor Johnson, coming in from the hall,
where he had been waiting, summoned them forth — and
it did not do to keep Doctor Johnson waiting. They all
went out, Mabelle and Grace in their shady hats, and
Philip in what Grace called * the Australian novelty ' in
white straw. They took sunshades, little shawls, and a
goodly basket of provisions, as to which Philip hazarded
the inquiry :

* Who is going to eat them ?'

* Never mind that, but put Ihem in,' said Grace, * and
when we come back, I hope your blushes may not betray
you when mother asks if we had enough to eat. Now,
I think, we are ready.*

A parting wave of the hand; a 'pleasant day, children !
Supper at nine, and don't be late for it,' from Mrs.
Massey, and they drove slowly away.

They passed a long and glorious day amongst the
woods and on the sands; sands miles away from any
house or habitation whatsoever, under dark, frowning
cliffs, around and beneath which the sea thundered for
ever in solitary splendour. Such yellow, hard, ribbed
sands ; such rocks full of strange fossils and pebbles ;
such crystal pools, unruffled as a mirror, reflecting the
sky, and studded with exquisite anemones, fringed with
fairy seaweed of every hue and every kind ; in and out
of which darted tiny grey crabs, and other minute
marine treasures, more difficult to recognise and more
abstrusely named.

* It is like heaven/ said Mabelle, who had wandered

182 MADE OR MARRED.

with Philip to the water's edge, while Grace sat on the
shingle behind, and fed Doctor Johnson.

Philip and Mabelle stood at the very brink of the
crisp white surges, looking out to sea, with miles and
miles of sand around them. To the south, dim and dis-
tant, might be seen the two stone piers and lighthouses
of Foulhaven, and the Abbey of St Ethelfleda tower-
ing more grimly than ever ; to the north more sands,
shut in by a wall of frowning black cliffs. The air was
fresh and pure and life-giving ; intoxicating in its mingled
softness and vigour. Not a sign of humanity beyond
themselves was visible.

* Do these waves make all this thundering when there
is no one here to listen to them?' asked Mabelle,
dreamily.

*That is a curious scientific question which I can't
answer ; and one might make poetry about it too. You
should read about the great explosions which are always
going on about the old planet Saturn — explosions such
as we cannot conceive of, and no ear to hear them. I
remember being struck with the weirdness of the idea
when I first read of it.'

* Yes, indeed !' said Mabelle, turning her head and
seeing Grace beckoning to them.

They went to her, and she said it was time to return.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN ACCOUNT CLOSED.

After supper they were wandering again in the garden
by moonlight, and the moths and bats were flitting and

AN ACCOUNT CLOSED. 183

circling round the light dresses of the girls. Not much
was said. Grace had passed her arm through Philip's,
and taken Mabelle's hand, and said :

' What shall I do when you both leave me ?'

After which there was silence, till Mrs. Massey's voice
called to Grace, and she left them.

*I must go too,* said Mabelle, resolved at once to
take the initiative, and display some firmness of cha-
racter.

' Go—why r

* Oh, my packing, you know.'

^Packing! At least you have time to stroll to the
cliff, and look at the German Ocean by moonlight. Who
knows when we shall have another chance ? Come !'

He opened the wicket in time for Doctor Johnson,
who had appeared upon the scene, to march unceremoni-
ously before them, and lead the way to the cliff.

* He knows, you see,' said Philip, clasping his hands
behind him as he paced beside the silent Mabelle.

They did not speak until, suddenly, the great expanse
of heaving waters was spread beneath their eyes, with a
long, silvery track of moonlight down it — a

'High
Cold path of duty, leading to the sky.'

The sky was cloudless, deep blue ; the stars were clear,
the moon radiant, the air like balm.

* How beautiful !' said Mabelle, softly ; but Philip, in-
stead of answering her remark, said :

* Mabelle, why don't you wish to travel with me to-
morrow P

*I '

* Is my company very distasteful to you ?'

184 MADE OR MARRED.

* What a question ! It was only '

' Only what ?'

* Angela will meet me at Irkford, and she does not
know you are going there.'

* Is that all ? She will be quite equal to the occasion,
I am sure ; and, I solemnly assure you, I have the best
hopes for my own presence of mind. Don't distress
yourself on that account'

* You are sure you will not mind ?'

* I shall not — that is, I should not, if— Mabelle, I told
you a month ago that I was a marred man after — after
that episode you cannot forget — and so, in a way, I was.
I know how it spoiled me. I know my nature got a
warp then, and will never be quite smooth again, and I
know I am more adapted to frighten a girl by my
brusquerie than to win her love by my amiability . , . .
and I have no right to ask any woman to bear with me,
and love me in spite of my roughness, as my dear Grace
has done, God bless her ! but it seems that trouble three
years ago did not secure me against ever falling in love
again ^

* Not with me T exclaimed Mabelle, involuntarily re-
coiling, and putting up her two hands; *you do not say it
is with me ?'

* But I do say it is with you, 7na belief said Philip, cap-
turing her hand and clasping his arm around her, * and I
wonder what just cause or impediment there should be
to my loving you. I say that I love you now, very differ-
ently from — but we'll not speak of that. Only I would
never have told you had I not fancied that you would
help me to wipe out this old account, Mabelle, and help
me to become a better man than I have been since that

AN ACCOUNT CLOSED. 185

day — you remember. I have often felt wicked when I
have thought of it ; I thought you would perhaps go on
making reparation — will you ?*

Mabelle's struggle between tears and smiles ended in
a convulsive laugh, which would not stop.

Philip, deriving hope from this, and perhaps pleased
with his own ingenious way of recommending himself as
a suitor, by painting himself as not the best of men, and
inviting his beloved to be continually making reparation
for a wrong which she had not committed, was also struck
with a sense of the ludicrous ; sentiment and solemnity,
moonlight and lovers' vows, were forgotten in peal on
peal of laughter.

Doctor Johnson, conceiving that he alone was the
object of a merriment which insulted and outraged his
most refined feelings, gave three short barks, and walked
away in inexpressible disgust.

* But this ill-timed mirth has prevented you from
giving a proper answer to my question,' observed Philip,
when the laughter had somewhat subsided.

*I don't know what to say,' said Mabelle, turning
away, the confusion which her mirth had covered rushing
over her again.

* Say yes.'

' It seems such a wild idea for you and me to get
married.'

* Well, let us have a wild idea or two, then.'

* What would Angela say ?'

* She would say that if you had played your cards
properly, you might have done better — like herself. Say
yes, Mabelle ? Say you love me at least'

* Oh, I do indeed !'

iS6 MADE OR MARRED,

* And these lips of yours are so true, and this right
hand never yet held a lie in it,' said he, kissing first
one and then the other. * Let me call them mine, and
you shall find that whatever else I may be, I am as true
as yourself.*

Mabelle left her hand in his, and Philip only released
it to put it in that of his mother, and ask her to bless her
new child.

*^^0 ^^^ ^^^ ^^^

^^ *T* ^^ *T*

On the evening of Mabelle's wedding-day, Angela sat
alone with her husband, who had come out in a manner
to surprise everyone, on the auspicious occasion. The
festivities had all been over for some hours : the last of
the guests had departed, and they were alone. There
was dead silence between them, till Mr. Fordyce, looking
up over his spectacles from the pages of a pamphlet en-
titled * Free Trade in Land,' remarked, benevolently —

* My dear, there is something almost romantic in your
little sister's marriage, though it has not been a runaway
match, like ours was.'

Angela did not answer for a moment, and then she
said —

' It is a poor match for a Fairfax, and a girl so beauti-
ful as Mabelle is. She ought to have done better, if I
had been able to introduce her into the kind of society
she ought to have gone into.'

* If you mean the society of persons in my own sphere,
which is all the society I choose to have about me,' said
Mr. Fordyce, * you flatter me. But I think she has done
well There is something most attractive about that young
man — so genuine. And then, he has such "go " in him.
He is a regular Yorkshireman for that Standing as he

AN ACCOUNT CLOSED. 187

does high in the favour of a firm like Starkie and Grey,
there is no saying where his advancement may end.
Your sister's husband, my dear, is a man she may well
be proud of. I declare ' — here Mr. Fordyce took off his
spectacles and wiped them — *I was quite moved this
morning, as I saw their happiness, and their evident per-
fect love for and trust in each other. They begin well,
very well ; and I wish them all happiness— -every possible
happiness. May God bless them both !'

He returned to the perusal of his pamphlet, and
Angela sat, twisting round and round a resplendent
bracelet with which her husband, in his delight at the
happiness of the young people, had that morning pre-
sented her. Her face was dark : the angelic smile and
languorous glance of yore did not now appear upon it so
often.

' Mabelle scarcely had any presents of jewellery,'
she was reflecting, *and I have quantities, and am
always getting more. But then, Philip dotes upon
Mabelle, and will take her about wherever she wants
to go, and how was I to know that he would be so
successful? Some people have nothing but good luck
in this world, and some none but bad. What is the use
of having pearl bracelets when there is no one to see
them but '

She did not distinctly finish this sentence, even in her
own mind, but her eyes fell upon the face of her husband,
a benevolent smile upon his lips, his thoughts buried in
his pamphlet on the Land Question. It was a homely,
kind, good fkce, which in the early days of their marriage
had often turned to her with a very loving smile ; that
expression had now grown much less frequent. Mr.

I88 MADE OR MARRED.

Fordyce sighed oftener, and smiled seldomer, and was
wont to look at the young children of his friends with a
wistful eye.

Surely retribution had descended upon Angela Fordyce
— retribution both visible and invisible ; visible, in that
she was denied those things which her soul craved after ;
invisible, in that the sacred sorrows and joys of struggle
and labour and hope, by the side of one who loved her,
which might have been hers, had she chosen to take them,
were now lost to her for ever. The chance of growing
better and worthier was sealed up against her for all
time ; isolated in a monotonous prosperity which she had
bought for herself with lies and degradation, she must
now ever grow down, mentally and morally, instead of
up.

The deed of a selfish, slow, egotistical nature may have
effects in divers directions, just as well as that of a quick
and self-forgetting one. Angela's sin had made one life
and marred another, but neither she nor Philip Massey
will ever understand, and she far less than he, how com-
plete, morally and spiritually, that making and marring
was.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELKCTROTYPBRS; GUILDFORD.

y, S. 6* Softs.